


Mistress Molly

by Sherlock1110, sherlockian4evr



Series: Things Unwanted [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Molly, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, CBT, Cages, Caning, Choking, Dark, Evil Molly, F/M, Face Slapping, Gags, Handcuffs, Heavy Angst, Humiliation, M/M, Master Molly, Master/Slave, Nipple Clamps, No Sex, Non-con BDSM, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Predicament Bondage, Restraints, Slave Sherlock Holmes, slave john watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-05-29 22:26:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 71,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6396313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where criminals can be claimed as slaves, Sherlock has been framed and convicted of murder. A power behind the scenes has kept it quiet and out of the press as well as hiding the fact from Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade who are both out of the country on an urgent and extremely secret mission. Seemingly meek Molly Hooper has taken possession of Sherlock as well as John who did something 'a bit not good' just so he could stay at Sherlock's side.</p>
<p>Extremely dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was running around the morgue, Dimmock following in his wake, the poor man looked completely clueless. “You're a bunch of idiots all of you! How can you not see it! There was glass and metal in the body!” Pointing out the obvious always bored Sherlock but right now it was pissing him off, he was too irritated to attempt to be polite. 

The detective tensed at the presence of a certain someone behind him. A certain someone that had just heard everything, no doubt. 

“My office now! The pair of you.”

Sherlock didn't move, he had completely fallen still. Dimmock had gone out of the morgue and up into the main hospital, ignoring the carnage left in his wake. 

John closed his eyes, he dropped his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. “Come on, Babe.”

Sherlock gave a shudder, but began moving towards Molly's office. He was grateful for the continued presence of John's hand on his shoulder, it was the only thing keeping him from trying to bolt from the morgue.

Molly was pacing just in front of her desk, she nearly growled when she saw the younger of the two delaying matters. 

“Chair, John.” She pointed at the sofa in the corner of the room. “You, kneel!” This time she pointed to the middle of the room. 

“Mis-”

“Floor, boy, now.”

With a glance at John who had now taken a seat, Sherlock dropped. He hit the floor so hard, that pain shot through his knees, but he didn't flinch or make a sound, not until Molly grabbed him by the curls and wrenched his head back. At that, he let out a small gasp.

“When will you learn that, as my slave, your poor behaviour reflects badly on me?”

She didn't wait for a response, just pulled his scarf off and stuck her finger in the d ring of the collar that was revealed. 

“I pulled you out of prison and I can just as easily put you back.”

Despite himself, Sherlock tried to jerk away, but Molly was stronger than she looked and kept her grip on the ring. “You can't even behave long enough for a lecture.” She snapped her fingers in John's direction. “Bring the leash.”

The doctor/slave did as instructed, full of dread for his friend.

Molly took it and snapped it in place on the d-ring of Sherlock's collar, then bent and fastened it to the lower corner of her desk. She shortened it so that he was forced to bend low, almost bowing his forehead to the floor.

She turned on John. “How long has he been mine?”

“107 days, miss.”

“And how long have you been mine?”

“101, miss.”

She turned and put her toe between Sherlock's feet, she kicked them apart forcing Sherlock's head further forward and his back become even more uncomfortable. 

“And you still cause me no end of trouble. Sometimes I wonder what I was thinking, offering to take the pair of you as my slaves.” Molly lifted her foot and pressed it to the small of Sherlock's back, resting her weight on it. “Oh, yes. I remember. I wanted to get a little of my own back for all those times you walked over my feelings.” 

John flexed his left hand, wanting to hit the woman. However Sherlock had treated her in the past, what she was doing was unjustified.

Despite their statuses this was still technically illegal. No crime had been committed in order for such treatment to be warranted but in order for them to do anything an 'official' must claim abuse. Seeing as Greg and Mycroft were out of the country and the fact at some point Sherlock had rubbed everyone at the Yard up the wrong way that would never happen. 

Molly turned her head and looked at John, her eyes drifting from his face down to his clenched fist. “Do you have something to say?” Her tone was scornful.

Oh, he had so very much to say, but he knew he had to bide his time, wait until their statuses changed. “No, miss.”

“Good.” She smiled at him wickedly. “Fetch the cane, then cuff yourself to the slave bolt in the corner.”

As John retrieved the cane, he glanced over to the metal bolt that she had referred to, it was a simple eye bolt mounted in the wall with a pair of handcuffs dangling from it.

“What are you waiting for?” 

The doctor grit his teeth. “Sherlock, are you-”

Molly slapped him. “You have no concern with his punishment. Cuffs. Now!” 

This time John moved over to the wall and knelt down beside the eyebolt. 

“Behind your back,” she added, turning to the detective again. She grabbed his curls and yanked his head up causing him to choke as the leash caught. 

John kept his eyes locked on Sherlock's face. If the detective were to look at him, he wanted to be able to offer whatever reassurance he could, as little as that would do to help.

“Now, Sherlock, I'm going to beat you for your little display of rudeness and you're going to thank me for each blow. What do you say to that?”

Sherlock couldn't answer, not with the way the collar constricted his windpipe. His eyes began to water and his vision went white at the edges.

Molly let him go, shoving his head back down. “Don't move.”

For once, he kept the how could I if I wanted to? comment to himself. 

She reached around him and unbuckled his belt. She yanked his trousers down, revealing his boxers. 

“What happened to no underwear?” She hissed. She looked over her shoulder at the doctor. “You are supposed to keep an eye on him!” 

John grimaced. He knew his failure would only make things worse for his friend. He simply hadn't thought it would be an issue. “I'm sorry, Miss. It's my fault. Please don't blame Sherlock.”

She jerked the detective's pants down. “Oh, I don't blame him, but he can take your punishment as well.”

John could see Sherlock biting his lip. It hadn't been John's fault. He was a grown man, he dressed himself in the morning. 

“Mis-” the thud of the cane shut him up. 

“You are going to count, boy, and you will thank me for each strike I give you.”

“Yes, mistress. One, mistress. Thank you, mistress.” He glared at the floor beneath his face, almost able to feel John's eyes on him, full of worry, and he couldn't stand to see it.

Another blow fell and he jerked spasmodically. “Two, mistress. Thank you, mistress.”

John hated his position, hands cuffed behind him, he was forced to be on his knees, his legs spread wide due to the height of the cuffs. He further hated the fact that he knew anything he said would just drop Sherlock in it further. He took a deep breath and tried to look away, but he couldn't leave Sherlock. Not when it wasn't his fault. Not ever. 

Sherlock turned his head away from John as the blows fell, not wanting to let him see the tears that were welling in his eyes from the pain. The words he was required to speak fell freely from his lips, they were meaningless anyway.

When Molly was done she threw the cane on her desk. “You'll both be coming home with me tonight.” She untied his leash and yanked him upright. When he was stood she tugged his trousers and pants completely free. “Hands behind your head,” she ordered. 

Obeying with a watery glance at his favourite doctor, Molly snapped cuffs around his wrists and buckled them to the back of his collar. 

“Corner,” she ordered kicking the back of his knee. His legs buckled and he fell, making it painful as well as awkward as made his way over to the opposite side of the room. “By all means face me, boy,” she said, her glare enough to knock Sherlock flat. The younger man's eyes widened as he saw the length of rope in her hand. She wrapped it around his cock and balls in a figure of 8 before tightening it and tugging it between his legs. She tied it off to a similar eyelet and then ordered Sherlock to shuffle forward. He moved, but not enough. Molly grabbed him by the curls again, pulling. “If you don't move to this spot,” she pointed at the floor, “I'll have to take out my frustration on John.”

Doing his best to ignore the pain between his legs, Sherlock shuffled forward. When he reached the indicated location, Molly left him to it, with a quick glance down at his balls, now being pulled back between his legs. 

“Don't move from that spot.”

“Yes, mistress,” he whispered. 

He couldn't bare to look at John so lowered his head instead. 

Molly settled herself behind her desk, making sure the cane stayed within sight of both her boys before she logged back into her computer and began tapping away. 

A knock came at her office door and she looked up. Donovan was standing there, looking over at Sherlock with a smirk on her face. “I was talking to the DI. I hear the Freak was up to his old tricks.”

“He was,” she agreed, that sweet manner that had been her when John had first met her. 

“What did you do to him?”

“Oh, he was sufficiently punished, weren't you, slave?”

“Yes, mistress,” he answered, voice low. 

“Boy, tell Sally that I punished you like you deserved. Like you always deserve.”

John was back to trying to control his shaking fist again, struggling to control his temper. 

Sherlock's head came up, anger flashing briefly in his eyes, but quickly concealed. He shot a brief glance in John's direction, then looked down at the floor. Were it not for what Molly might do to his friend, he'd tell both women to go to hell. “Mistress Molly punished me like I deserve.”

“Why do you even have him?”

“How d'you mean?” Molly stood now and circled around her desk. 

“Well, with him being such a prick to my superiors, you'd expect him to go right back from where you got him. And that one,” she turned her glare on John. 

“It's only been just over 3 months. But trust me, these two won't be leaving my apartment again until I can be sure incidents like what just occurred with Detective Inspector Dimmock are not repeated.”

Sally shook her head. “Better you than me.” 

Molly gave her another sweet smile. “Oh, it's not that bad.” She cocked her head to the side. “Actually, I've been far more relaxed lately, having something to take out my frustrations on.”

Had they been talking about anyone else, Sally might have been moved to file a complaint on behalf of the two slaves. As it was, she felt an illicit glee, the Freak no doubt deserved every inch of the registrar's anger and frustration. 

Molly glanced between her two slaves. Both were staring at the floor and she could clearly see Sherlock's cock beneath his shirt tails, red and inflamed. 

“I sense you'd like to join me one day.”

Donovan grinned wickedly. “Could I make him crawl around all day?” She'd never forgiven him for his snide comment the night she had met John Watson. “I'd love to make him do all sorts of things.”

“You can make him do whatever you want. But leave that one, he's cute when he's all worked up.”

Sherlock shifted on his knees his hands flexing behind his head. “Mistress, please-”

Molly stepped towards him and grabbed his chin in her fist. “Sod work,” she growled low enough for just Sherlock to hear. “We're going now.”

Donovan grinned. “Well, Molly, I'll catch up with you at another time.”

Molly waved Sally on her way as she untied the rope that tethered Sherlock to the floor. She scooped up his trousers and carried them over to John. “Since he won't have the use of his hands, you'll have to dress him. Leave the rope, though,” Molly unlocked the cuffs, freeing John to do as she ordered. “Don't worry, it's tight enough to be uncomfortable, but not so tight as to cause permanent damage.”

“You hurt him and-”

Molly's hand grabbed John's own bollocks through his trousers and he tensed. 

“You forget, slave, you're mine in every possible way and not a single person in here or at the Yard will lift a finger to save that.” She pointed at the still kneeling detective. 

She tightened her grip to emphasise her point. “What do you say?”

“Thank you, miss, for letting me take care of him,” he growled out between gritted teeth.

Molly smiled. John could growl all he liked, he was helpless to change anything. She released her grip on his bollocks and patted him on the cheek. “If you're both very good for the rest of the day, I won't even make him sleep in the cage tonight.”

John moved to Sherlock's side. He knelt beside him and ran his hands along his arms, checking his circulation. Then he tilted his much-more-than-friend-now forward so he could check his arse. Once upon a time they both would have found the situation entirely too embarrassing to even bother with. But now… it seemed the only comfort they had was each other especially with the British Government and their favourite DI was out of contact. 

He had a split second to recognise his 'owner's' footsteps before he felt the heavy smack of the cane on his own arse. 

“He's fine, now get him dressed!”

“Yes, miss. Sorry, miss.” 

Molly turned to grab her coat and John cupped the other man's cheek, wiping a tear away with his thumb. He kissed him softly as he helped ease each leg around and then into his trousers. As he helped to pull them up he loosened the rope just slightly trying to increase the younger man's comfort levels. 

“Oh, I forgot to mention. I've had a new cage delivered. Of course I still have the extra small one for him when he's a shitbag but this new one will keep you both.” Hearing such a 'sweet' person swear would have been unusual but since Molly had bought them it was kind of… not normal but a regular occurrence. 

Both men kept their faces completely neutral. John did so in an effort at hiding his relief. He would be able to offer the other man more comfort, hold him when Molly wasn't looking. Sherlock did so because he didn't want John to see his raw need to have him by his side regardless of the circumstances.

The doctor fetched Sherlock's coat, but there was no way to even drape it over his shoulders, not with his wrists cuffed to the back of his neck. 

Molly snatched it from his hands. “The cold will be good for him. Maybe it will drive the lesson home.”

John glanced at the younger man, their looks saying exactly the same thing. 'Like the 15 cane strokes didn't'. 

To make a point John avoided his coat from the rack as well, although he didn't know if said point was aimed at Sherlock or Molly. 

He placed his hand at the base of the detective's back and urged him forward.

Sherlock turned as best he could and gave him a look. “Don't be absurd. Put on your coat, it's freezing out,” he whispered.

John only shrugged and gave him another small nudge. 

It was difficult guiding Sherlock out between doors and the few members of staff around were looking his way smirking. 

The younger man was beginning to lose the feeling of his fingers, given their position, John saw his grimace when they reached Molly's car. 

“Miss, can you at least let him lower his hands? It's a 20 minute drive.”

Molly stopped and looked at John, her lips twisted into a sneer. “Of course he can lower his hands, but if he does, well...” She gave a shrug. “I suppose I could always let him sleep bound to the punishment post. Maybe with a five pound weight hanging from his bollocks. It's up to him, of course.”

Sherlock lowered his head, shivering slightly in the cold but determined not to let either of them see it. He couldn't show weakness, but he was starting to realise John already knew about the aches and everything he tried to hide on a regular basis. 

Molly pushed the doctor out of the way, opened the boot and shoved Sherlock in, she gave him just enough time to tuck his feet in before she slammed it shut. 

“I suppose now his hands aren't in the air, are they?”

John glowered at her, not getting into the car. He was afraid that if he did, he'd dive across the seat and strangle her.

“Is something wrong, John?” she asked in a falsely sweet tone. “Would you like to say something?”

John tensed at footsteps coming up behind him. 

“Your slave giving you trouble, Molly?” Andersen asked. 

“No, not at all, at least I don't think he is. Are you, boy?”

“No, miss.”

“Now get in the back.”

John climbed in the car, letting his head drop back to the seat. He had to find a way to help Sherlock in more than token ways. The real murderer, the one who had framed the detective, was still out there. If he could be discovered...

John's eyes burned with unshed tears of frustration. The situation was hopeless, neither of them were left to their own devices for more than a few moments at a time. If only Greg and Mycroft would come back from wherever they had gone. The two men were likely their only hope.

Molly climbed in after an elongated conversation with Andersen. 

“He wondered where your boyfriend was.”

The doctor didn't rise to the bait. Sherlock wasn't his boyfriend. Or was he? They'd been through a lot together, they were definitely more than friends. 

“I said he'd run away. No one will be looking for him now. Well, they may look but they'll never find him.”

“And what about me?”

She glanced at him in the mirror. “I'm sure you'll be running away soon as well so you can be with your boyfriend.” 

“If we're both going to disappear anyway, why shouldn't I just kill you now?”

“Oh, Doctor Watson, would you? Really?” She glanced in the mirror again. “Perhaps you would do that. Consider this before you do. Why hasn't that brother of his come running? Hmm? You know I have connections. If they can keep him in the dark, how much are your lives worth with me dead?”

“They're not worth anything now! Some good might as well come out of this.”

“It's been 3 months, John. Nobody has rescued the thing in the boot because no one cares.”

“Why do you want him so much?”

“Why do you?” she countered.

The doctor turned his gaze out the window, not giving her an answer. She would just deride him if he told her the truth, then use his words against them both.

Molly smiled to herself and hummed. She had been letting John get away with far too much. It was time to change that.

“I like your spirit, John, but it gives him ideas, let's him hold out hope that this will all come to an end someday. I can't allow that anymore. He gets nothing more to eat until you learn to behave yourself.”

John opened his mouth and then closed it again, thinking. He bit his lip briefly. “Sorry, miss.”

Molly nodded once. “It's going to take far more than that.”

She climbed out of the car as they pulled up in the drive and walked around, opening the door for John. She snapped Sherlock's leash on John's collar and pulled him out. 

“Open the boot.”

Sherlock blinked up at the sudden light. He looked horrible, his normal pallor magnified by the chill. At least up front, John had had the benefit of the heat.

Sherlock moved stiffly, struggling to get to his knees. The doctor held out steadying hands. “Come on, Sherlock, you can do this.”

“If he can't, he can just stay there all night,” Molly tossed out hatefully.

Slowly, the detective got out of the boot with John's help and they made their way inside.

“Basement,” Molly hissed as she opened the door. 

John didn't know whether or not the fact Sherlock had missed the conversation in the car was a good or a bad thing. 

He helped him move stiff legs down the stairs, in the dark until Molly flicked the light on. John hoped against the odds that Molly would release Sherlock's wrists, at least from behind his head. 

Of course she didn't. Instead, she had him stand in the centre of the room and attached a chain to a second d-ring on his collar. She moved over to the winch and tightened the chain until Sherlock could barely support himself on his feet without having his air cut off.

“Strip, John, then get his clothes off. I don't care how you do it, but don't release his wrists.” She walked over to the thermostat and turned off the heat. “I'll be back in a few minutes with water for him and something for you to eat. Have him ready when I return. I have something special planned.”

John stood in front of Sherlock waiting for Molly to leave. 

“There's something you say, boy!” 

“Yes, miss.” 

She nodded again, before turning to go back up the stairs. 

John cupped Sherlock's cheek again. “How you feeling?”

The detective gave a bitter laugh. “My arse is still throbbing, my hands have gone numb and my shoulders feel like they're on fire from being held in this position for so long.”

“I'm sorry, lo... I'm sorry. After she leaves us, I'll do something to help, I promise. Just, can you breathe properly?”

“I'm in no danger of dying of positional asphyxiation, if that is your concern.”

“That isn't my only concern. But I'm worried what will happen when I can't get your shirt off.”

He dropped to his knees to unbuckle his trousers and pull them off. 

“Just rip it.”

“I don't care about the shirt, 'Lock, it's the fact if I pull it it's going to dislocate one or both shoulders.”

John quickly got rid of his clothes so the psychotic woman would have as little to complain about at once. 

“Whatever the complaint is I'll take it,” Sherlock whispered. 

“Not happening.”

That was when they heard the door open and footsteps begin on the stairs. 

“On second thought, rip the damned shirt. She'll come up with something worse, if you don't.”

John set his jaw and did as he was told, using as much care as possible, but he simply couldn't get the shirt off of him in time.

“John, I'm disappointed in you. It looks like Sherlock won't be getting food tomorrow either.” Molly pointed to a chair that sat in the far corner of the room. Take this tray and sit over there. Eat every bite. I'll not have you saving any to sneak to him later.”

Molly walked around Sherlock, looking at him. When she grasped the shreds of his shirt, she didn't hesitate. The sound of tearing fabric was accompanied by the detective's sharp gasps of pain. She ran her hands over his shoulders in a perfunctory manner. “Don't be so dramatic. I didn't actually dislocate anything, though it was close.” Molly knelt and looped the rope that bound his genitals through a bolt in the floor, pulling it taught before tying it off. “Tell me, what should I do with the doctor now that you're settled in for the night?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, falling forward slightly. “Mistress, please, I'm sorry for upsetting Dimmock and making you look bad.”

Molly laughed and it was an ugly sound. “No, you're only sorry you got caught, but I'll make you truly sorry.”

She pulled out a chair that reclined slightly and secured a small pyramid shaped device on the seat. “John, dear, I've changed my mind. You'll be sitting right here for the evening. Leave the food and come along.”

The doctor stood and walked over, eyeing the object with no little trepidation. Sitting on that would hurt like hell.

“Oh, come, John. You know what's expected. Sit with the tip of the pyramid in that little hole of yours and I'll strap you into the seat.”

“Molly, enough,” Sherlock croaked out. “I truly am sorry for all the times I made you feel like shit. But John's done nothing wrong.”

“Did you know he threatened to kill me earlier?”

“I'm sure he didn't mean it. This can't be all you want us for, there has to be something else.”

“Oh, look who still thinks he's so smart.” Molly patted his cheek, then slapped him. “I want you to suffer. I want you degraded. I want you so debased that you'll do anything I ask. Anything. If I say fuck yourself on a hot poker, you'll do it. If I say cut off your finger, you'll do that as well. If I say kill a man, you'll do it with a smile and bring back his heart in a jewelled box just like out of a fairy tale.” 

“That's what this is really about, then. You want someone dead and you want me to do it?”

“Oh no no. They were mere examples but if I tell you to do that. You will do it.”

“Why do you need John for this? It's me you want.”

“Oh he's useful in other ways. And don't forget his robbing the bank idea was to get put with you. But maybe you're right. If you obey me now, the pair of you. I will come down before I go to bed and lock you both in my new cage for the night.”

She turned and strapped John in the chair just as she had promised then started up the stairs. Molly hesitated for one moment, debating if she should switch off the light, but decided against it. It would be worse for the both of them having to watch each other suffer.

“Sherlock,” John began.

“Hush. She's listening. Microphone.”

The doctor nodded. He pushed up with his legs as best he could to ease the pain the pyramid was causing, but he wouldn't be able to hold the position for long. The best he could hope for was that their silence would earn them time together in the new cage. He prayed it would happen soon.

The pain in Sherlock's shoulders must have been immense as he had seemed to have passed out. No matter what John did on his ever painful chair he couldn't rouse him. 

“Sherlock, babe, please! Molly!” He tried yelling. “Miss, please! If you want him to do your dirty work you don't want him in a coma!”

A few moments later, Molly came storming down the stairs. “Dammit, Holmes. She went to the winch and slowly lowered him to the floor where he collapsed into a pile. The release of pressure at his neck allowed him to start breathing again, but his breaths were shallow and he didn't seem to be coming around.

Molly quickly released John. “See to it he doesn't die.”

The doctor ignored her meaningless words and knelt by the detective. He placed his fingers against the pulse point at his neck. His pulse was thankfully strong. “Come on, Sherlock. Wake up for me.” He slapped Sherlock's cheek lightly, just enough to rouse him.

“John?”

“Oh, thank God.” He looked up at Molly. “Miss, please. He almost died. He needs rest. He needs his hands and everything else free, no physical stress for a few hours. Otherwise, he'll be no use to you.”

“Him. Not you,” she said, daring him to argue. 

She moved to uncuff his wrists from his collar and unraveled the rope around his cock and balls. 

“Get him in the cage,” she ordered, turning on a light in the corner. 

The cage that was revealed was rather big. Almost a comfortable size for the two of them. The dog beds in the corner made John turn his nose up, just like the water bowls and litter trays in the other corner. 

“What are you waiting for?”

John scooped up the still weak detective and carried him over to the door, ignoring the throbbing in his arse. He lowered him by the gate. “You'll have to do this bit alone,” he whispered. 

He watched Sherlock struggle his way in and paused as his hair was gripped. “Wrists,” Molly hissed. John pushed his hands out and Molly cuffed them. 

“You will both be given food in the morning if you do not try anything tonight.”

“Yes, miss,” John whispered.

This time when she left, she left them in darkness.

Sherlock managed to crawl the short distance to John's side and wrapped his aching arms and trembling legs about him. The detective brought his mouth close to John's ear. “She won't be able to hear us if we whisper.”

John tried to encourage him off the metal grating and into one of the beds. Then he reached over and grabbed one of the bowls. He lifted it to let Sherlock slurp from it. 

“I'm not peeing in that thing,” he said out loud. If Molly didn't hear any of their conversation she would know what they were up to.

“Of course you will, eventually.” Sherlock let out a theatrical moan. “I'm tired, John. So tired. Can I just quit now?” Now his voice came as a whisper, “We have to convince her she's won. That she's broken me.”

“How do we do that?”

“Behave,” he whispered, before his eyes drifted shut and he was out cold again, falling forward and landing his head in John's lap.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock felt John shiver in his arms. He wriggled around and pulled the second dog bed up over them, but it didn't provide much warmth. It was only a short time later that he heard Molly coming down the stairs.

John's eyes cracked open. “Morning already?” He asked quietly. 

Sherlock had practically recovered as of a few hours ago and he ran his hand through John's hair. “Shame,” he whispered back. 

The doctor looked over towards the corner of the cage and the litter tray. He whispered again, “I suppose I'll use that thing after all, if she unfastens my hands. It'll make her think I'm resigned to it.”

“Morning boys!” She chirped loudly. 

Both men lowered their heads. 

“I saw you eyeing up the tray, John, do you need to go pee pee?”

“Yes, miss, please,” he said meekly.

She opened the cage door. “Sherlock, out.” Molly waited until he had crawled to the centre of the room, then she released John's wrists and closed the door. “Enjoy yourself, John.”

Molly turned back and walked to stand by Sherlock. She gave him a kick in the thigh, enjoying his flinch. 

“Hands behind your head.”

Sherlock obeyed immediately and Molly snapped a pair of cuffs around them. 

“I've phoned into work and let them know that my slaves need a bit of training so don't worry boys, you have my undivided attention all day.”

John heard her words and turned his head to the corner to hide his expression - thankfully she had lied about saying they had run away so perhaps their lives weren't in immediate danger.

Molly walked over to the cage. “You done in there, boy?” 

“Yes, miss.”

“Oh, being polite today are we?”

“Yes, miss,” he repeated, shooting a quick look at Sherlock. The younger man had been left facing the other direction. 

Molly glanced back at the detective. Sherlock had hunched his shoulders and was looking down at the floor as meekly as possible.

“Isn't that a lovely sight, Sherlock all submissive and on his knees.”

“Yes, miss,” he said for the third time. 

“Well, what are you waiting for, boy, get out and join him!”

She opened the gate and the doctor shuffled out, crawling across the room to kneel next to Sherlock as fast as he could. 

Molly set a dog food bowl in front of John, thankfully it was full of cereal not the obvious. 

“Thank you, miss.” The doctor bent and started eating immediately

Sherlock didn't comment, just continued to stare at the floor. 

Molly grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. “Why so quiet, boy?”

Sherlock called forth tears. John would know it was fake, but Molly wouldn't. 

“I'm sorry, mistress.”

John was trying his hardest not to be frustrated at the idea of eating out of a dog bowl and hoped that her words from the previous evening were truthful and Sherlock would get to eat something. 

The detective couldn't have cared less if he got to eat, he'd gone much longer while on cases without food. What he truly hoped for was that Molly would turn the heat back on. To that end, he let himself shiver visibly.

“Ah, are my slaves cold?”

She still hadn't let go of Sherlock's curls so he knew he was to answer. “Yes, mistress. Sorry, mistress.”

“Sorry, boy? Why are you sorry?”

“I'm sorry you had to punish us, Mistress. I'm sorry for my behaviour. I didn't mean to complain, mistress, even by deed.”

“Well, isn't that touching,” she sneered. “But I'm not sure I believe you.”

Sherlock's head fell lower as she let him go. 

“I may let you eat… if you kiss my shoes.”

John looked over at him at that. It would be a difficult feat with his hands tied behind him. 

He wasn't particularly hungry, but he had no idea when she'd let him eat again. Practicality won out. Sherlock sat back on his heels, then bent forward from the waist. He almost toppled over halfway down, but he did it, kissed her shoes. Rising back up proved to be easier, thankfully.

Molly stared at the two bowed heads in front of her. She leant forward and gripped Sherlock's chin, tipping his head back roughly. “What is it with you today?”

His mind raced for something she would believe. “John, mistress. I don't want to be the reason he's hurt. Last night, it was cold and the way he had to sleep... His shoulder has to be hurting and it's my fault, mistress.”

John hadn't even mentioned his shoulder. To either of them for months. He doubted Molly even knew about him getting shot all those years ago. 

Molly tilted her head on one side, thinking. “Is this right, John?”

John's eyes flickered towards the scar on his shoulder, then back to her face. “Yes, miss. The cold makes it ache and it gets stiff when I can't move it for long periods of time.”

“This should have been made known to me!” She yelled. “Your sentence is for 7 years and you should be the same as when I bought you, if you're not I will get in trouble. Why didn't you tell me this?!”

John was caught completely off guard by her reaction. “Miss, I'm sorry. I didn't think. I've gotten so used to it...” He was cut off by a slap to the face.

“No. It was a deliberate oversight,” she accused. “You wanted me to get in trouble.”

“No, miss, I didn't! It was years ago and well… I kind of don't think of it till I'm cold.”

“He didn't think you would care,” Sherlock added. “Neither did I.” He didn't realise his excuse would get John into so much trouble. 

This time, Molly slapped Sherlock. “Watch your mouth.” She sounded slightly hysterical, but quickly calmed herself. “What helps it?” She looked back at John.

“Heat, miss. Paracetamol. Massage.”

She shoved another bowl in front of Sherlock ordering him to eat when she turned to a cupboard. 

Given where Sherlock's hands were John used his good arm to hold the bowl up for him, hoping Molly wouldn't instant punish either of them for it. Sherlock began to eat with a sidelong glance in the older man's direction. He smiled, but it was weak. 

Molly was pulling out a bench as she began speaking over her shoulder, still not noticing how the doctor was helping the other slave out. “Sherlock will give you a massage while I watch.”

John set the bowl down when it seemed like she was about to turn around.

“I'm going upstairs for some oil. You can release his hands while I'm gone and lay down on the bench. I’ll bring down some paracetamol as well.”

The moment she disappeared up the stairs, Sherlock apologised, “I'm sorry. I didn't know how she'd react.”

John shrugged. “All told, it might be for the best. Now, turn around.”

Sherlock shifted on his knees and John used the key Molly had passed to him on the way out to release him. 

“What's going to happen to us if we ever get out of this?” Sherlock asked.

“I think she's the one that should be worried. Greg and Mycroft won't be gone forever. When we get out of this, it'll be because you'll have been cleared.”

Sherlock frowned as he tried to lower his arms, the cuffs were stuck. “But not you. You actually committed a crime.” 

“Well, you can buy out my sentence when she has to relinquish me.”

“All Mycroft will have to do is look at her.”

John smiled. “I sure do miss your brother,” he said quietly. 

“What was that, boy?!”

The pair flinched at the sound of Molly's voice. 

“Sorry, miss. We were just talking about family. You don't realise how much they mean to you until you can't see them anymore. My sister. His brother.” John ducked his head. “We won't mention them anymore, miss.”

“You won't speak at all anymore. You need my permission to do everything. Now why aren't you on the bench?”

“The cuffs got stuck, miss,” John answered, head low. 

She stepped forward and grabbed Sherlock by the curls, pulling him up to his feet. 

It took her a few moments, but she got the cuffs loose and tossed them to the side. “They were cheap. I won't make that mistake again. Now over there with the both of you. Wait, John.” She took two tablets from her pocket. “Take these.”

He stared at them for a moment before taking them quietly. He swallowed them without water. “Thanks, miss.”

“Now get on the bench.”

John didn't need telling twice. 

“After you've massaged his shoulder, be sure to work it through its full range of motion. I won't be accused of damaging my property permanently.” She paced a circle around them. “I'll just have to find other methods of punishment for him.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Yes, mistress.” He could deduce those methods and although it kept John out of harm’s way, it put him in it and he didn't know how much pain he could stand with John watching. 

For the moment, he pushed that aside. Sherlock still kept his meek demeanour, but he let himself enjoy doing this for John. They were closer now than they had ever been before, they had to be, what with their independence and freedom stripped from them. They were all they had remaining to each other.

Sherlock used skills he'd learnt on a case. Skills John wasn't even aware he had. 

“Mistress?” Sherlock called over to where she sat quietly. 

“What?” She growled. 

“When I finish with John, I could work on you. Just your neck and shoulders, mistress. I know you don't want me touching you as a rule, but it could be an apology for my behaviour yesterday.”

“Or it could be you sucking up to me.”

“No, mistress! It's-”

“Save it! Are you done?”

“Yes, mistress. I think John's asleep.”

For the first time, Sherlock noticed it wasn't quite as cold in the basement as it had been. Still, he dared to push. “Mistress, may I place a blanket on him?”

“It will cost you,” she said hatefully.

“Yes, mistress. I understand.” 

“Then go ahead.”

Sherlock lay a blanket across John gently, then turned and waited for whatever would happen next.

Molly moved and cuffed one of the doctor's hands to the bench. 

She replaced the rope around Sherlock's cock and balls and then tugged him towards the stairs. 

Upstairs, Molly tethered him to the wall. He faced towards the centre of the room and his cock was pulled back between his legs. Molly reached up and pulled down two auto retracting chains. Each one had a wicked clamp at the end. She placed them on his nipples and stepped back.

“There. That should keep you occupied while I plan the rest of our day.”

“Yes, mistress, but what about Jo-”

Molly pressed a ball gag to Sherlock's lips, he didn't argue as she rammed it in and buckled it behind him.

Down in the basement, John woke. He felt better than he had in months. His shoulder didn't hurt and he was warm. When he tried to sit up, he found his right wrist cuffed to the bench and frowned. “Sherlock?” he whispered. “Miss?” He was answered by an eerie silence. John only hoped that Sherlock wasn't paying the price for his comfort. Being down in the basement meant limited light even in the middle of the day so he couldn't see much passed a few feet. It felt like forever until there was a noise that wasn't his own breathing. 

Molly came down the steps and walked up to him.

“Feeling better?” She asked the question, but it was clear she didn't really care what the answer was. 

“Yes, miss.”

“Good. You can go do the shopping for me. Of course, you'll need to clean up and get dressed first.” She thrust a list out at him. “I don't need to tell you what I'll do to him if you try anything while you're gone.”

“No, miss.”

John didn't do anything until Molly had released him and then he picked up his clothes he had stripped from last night. Molly used her finger in his collar to drag him up the stairs. 

The moment John saw Sherlock's predicament, he bit the inside of his cheek. He was supposed to be playing that he was beaten, not flying off in a rage.

“Have you thought of anything else you want, miss?”

“No. Go.”

John nodded and ran from the room and out the front door. 

“Looks like your doctor doesn't care about you anymore.”

Molly wasn't looking at him, so Sherlock rolled his eyes. She might be in control at the moment, but she was an idiot. Everything John did was first weighed by his care for Sherlock then by his own needs. That was the type of man John was. That was the type of man Sherlock had become because of John. 

“Of course, you know if he does anything while he's out you'll be paying the price.”

He nodded as that was his expected response when gagged. Sherlock held his left wrist with his right hand behind his back. He almost wished Molly would cuff them. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to reach towards his throbbing nipples or nether regions.

How had their life become this? They'd been, albeit in Sherlock's case not the nicest of people, but they'd done their bit for society helped the police and then suddenly his brother was away when he never went out of the country and he was being arrested. He'd spent 2 weeks alone, stuck in a cell and then John joined him another week and Molly had arrived. 

Sherlock had seen it as a get out of jail free card to begin with but that soon changed. 

What he really wondered was how they'd all missed how unbalanced Molly was. She was like a chameleon, changing how she presented herself at will. Everyone at the Yard still thought she was sweet and meek. Except perhaps Donovan. That woman thought she had found a kindred spirit at last in hating him.

Sherlock was trembling an hour later, his hands must have been red with how tight he was having to hold his wrist. Molly was just sat, well… more lounging across the room reading a magazine when John came in. 

John's jaw tightened when he saw Sherlock. He walked quietly through the room and set everything on the side. He hesitated, but he had to say something. “Miss,” he said from the kitchen doorway with his head bowed, “Permission to speak?”

Molly simply waved a hand in the air.

John braced himself, praying he wasn't about to make things worse. “Those clamps cause pain by cutting off circulation. Unless you want to cause permanent damage, you shouldn't leave them on for more than 15 minutes at a time.”

Molly glanced at her watch and John did the same to the clock. He had been at the shop for about an hour and he reckoned he had been asleep about an hour as well, so if Sherlock had been brought upstairs at the start of that that would mean 2 hours in that state. No wonder he had gone incredibly pale and was sweating like nothing else. 

She still didn't look very concerned. “Fine. You can take them off.”

John nodded. “Thanks, miss.”

“But he has to kneel. Without untying the rope.”

“Yes, miss.” John ground his teeth and moved to stand in front of Sherlock. “I'm sorry. This is going to hurt.”

Sherlock's eyes had drifted shut and he didn't even make a noise when John unclipped the clamps. He let the chain run up into the ceiling and reluctantly helped Sherlock forward to his knees.

“What's wrong with him?!” Molly demanded from where she sat

Sherlock had collapsed back on his heels and his chin had fallen forward to his chest. 

It was then John realised the younger man's collar had been tightened and with the strength he had been holding his hands had thrust his chest forward painfully. 

“Miss, he was barely breathing, could barely breathe.” John cradled him, pulling his head up onto his shoulder and feeling his neck for a pulse. It was there, strong. “Come on, 'Lock, wake up. Wake up.” He was rocking him gently.

Molly moved quickly and untied the rope that tethered him to the wall. “Lay him down.”

“Are you trying to kill him?” John asked. “Make it look like an accident?”

“No, of course not!”

He moved to get a pulse again, it was still there, but he wasn't waking up. He lifted him up and moved to place him on the sofa without Molly's consent. “Then why are you treating him this way?”

“Because nothing else gets through to him. He's a cold hearted, arrogant prick. He played me. He plays you. He uses everyone and throws them away when he's done. I'm going to make him into something useful!”

Sherlock groaned as his eyes flickered open. He'd heard that, not what John must have said before, but what Molly had said. She was right. 

On sight of Molly he tried pushing himself from the chair and to the floor at her feet but John wouldn't let him. 

“Get off,” he croaked. 

“Sherlock, stop it, think this through. You need a while to rest.”

“Maybe. But I don't know why you're wasting your time. Is there nothing he can do to help you, mistress?”

Something cold ran through John at those words. They didn't feel like they were put on or calculated. He needed to talk to Sherlock, but he couldn't do it now.

“Yes,” Molly agreed. “John, finish putting away the shopping and start on lunch.”

“But, miss-”

“Go John,” Sherlock ordered. As soon as he had stood, with high reluctance, Sherlock rolled from the seat to his knees, no less pale and no less sweating. 

He crawled in front of Molly and bent to press his forehead to the floor in front of her feet. “Forgive my weakness, mistress. John was overly concerned.”

“No. If your life is endangered, you are to get my attention however necessary. I can find other ways to shape you.” She slid the tip of her shoe beneath his chin and tilted his face up. “Something has changed with you.”

“I'm your slave, mistress. You do with me what you please.”

“Not to put your life in danger.”

“Surely that too? You paid for me, mistress.”

“You're my property for the next thirteen years, but I have to present you whole after that. If you don't care about yourself, have a care for John. If any damage comes to you, I'll do it to him. I'll have nothing to lose anyway.”

Sherlock glanced at the kitchen door. “John can look after himself, mistress. You may as well let him go. You only bought him to control me. You don't need him anymore. Now, how can I serve you, mistress?”

Sherlock had knelt up despite the woozy feeling and was ignoring his aching arms behind his head once again. 

“Mm, I don't think so. Not yet, at any rate.” She looked at Sherlock long and hard. “You want me to believe I don't need him. Prove it.”

“Yes, mistress.” Sherlock crawled to the corner and knelt on the hardwood floor. It was his corner and rice was scattered liberally in the small space. The longer he knelt there, the more it would hurt. He found he wanted it to hurt.

“I didn't mean like that or right now for that matter, you need to rest.”

“I'm fine, mistress.” He raised his hands to rest at his neck just as the kitchen door opened and John reappeared. 

“Miss, he shouldn't be-”

“John! Shut up!” Molly's hands flew to her hair. “I know he should be resting. He misunderstood, like he always does. Take care of him. Keep him quiet. I need to think!”

“Yes, miss.” 

He tried to ease Sherlock from the corner, the burst of energy it had taken for the detective to get to there in the first place had taken its toll. 

“You stupid git. Why are you over here?”

Sherlock refused to answer. He couldn't believe how right Molly had been. Despite the fact he had not committed murder he deserved this. Deserved an owner like Molly. 

John finally got Sherlock up, brushing his knees and shins off. He helped him over to the sofa and down onto it. “Rest. Please. If anything happens to you...” The doctor looked up, but Molly had left the room. “I need you to take care of yourself when she lets you. You have to. For me.”

Sherlock still didn't speak, just sat awkwardly ridged on the chair. 

John sighed and went to the kitchen to get him a drink. 

Molly re-entered the room as John handed the detective a glass of water, Sherlock was ignoring it, just staring at his feet. 

The doctor sighed and lifted the glass to Sherlock's lips. “Drink.” To his relief, the detective did so. “Now lean back.” Sherlock only complied at John's gentle push against his chest, but he remained looking down, not speaking. 

“John, what is wrong with him?”

“I have no idea, miss.”

Sherlock heard their words, but didn't respond, he wouldn't respond unless spoken to by Molly.

Molly stood with her hands on her hips. “Sherlock, what is your problem?”

“Mistress, please. I'm fine. I belong to you. I serve you. I realise that now.”

John wanted to say well done because Sherlock was doing an excellent job at convincing him, let alone Molly. But something in Sherlock's voice said it was true, not a bluff. 

“John, he clearly doesn't want you near him.”

“Miss, please.”

Molly held up her hand to silence John. “But I don't really care what he wants. You are his caretaker. Get him presentable. I might decide to have company later.”

Molly looked between them, there was something definitely odd going on but that didn't mean they got away with things. 

“John, where is my lunch?”

“Oh, sorry, miss. I got distracted. I'll go finish that, then see to Sherlock.” He stood. “Please rest and behave, 'Lock, until I get back. I'll hurry.”

“Don't bother, I can keep an eye on him.”

Sherlock looked over at her and then immediately lowered his gaze submissively. 

She thought about allowing him some clothes, but changed her mind, instead she hooked his leash to his now-loosened collar and tugged him towards the basement. 

She locked him in his cage and then made her way back upstairs. 

John had her lunch ready when she reappeared. “Here you go, miss.” He noted the absence of Sherlock. “Where is he, miss?”

“Resting. In the cage.” Molly began eating. “I still don't understand why you care.”

“He's my friend. My best friend.”

“He's a psychopath. And show me some respect!”

“Yes, miss, sorry, miss. What cage is he in, miss?”

“His. Now kneel. I want a footrest.”

John knelt, his back to Molly. Thankfully, she liked to rest her feet against his back not on his shoulder. Sometimes she would dig her heels into his muscles and it actually felt good, though he would never tell her that. All the times she thought she was hurting him and was actually doing the opposite, John took those as wins. 

Molly ignored the doctor for the rest of her lunch but John couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock. Sherlock in his cage, when he felt like this, like he actually deserved it. 

“Stop tensing boy!”

“But, miss. Sherlock...”

Molly pushed him over. “He's finally acting like he should. All you need to do is see to his physical needs. In fact, I think I'll gag you whenever you're around him. It wouldn't do for you to try talking him around to his old behaviours.”

“I won't anyway, miss. He gets hurt with his old behaviours.”

John couldn't help but worry that something in the last few hours had changed Sherlock in a way that was supposed to be faked. 

“We'll just play it safe, though, won't we? Bring me the locking gag. I'll put it on you and then you can take him his lunch.”

“Yes, miss.” He fought back the urge to scream. How was he going to be able to get through to Sherlock like that?

John realised, weren't the gags downstairs? A glimmer of hope… The only thing Molly had up here were the leashes. 

“Um, miss?” 

“What?” She hissed. 

“The gags are downstairs, miss.”

Molly growled, glaring at the doctor. “You might as well go down. It's not like he wants to speak to you anyway.”

John grabbed a plate with two of the extra sandwiches he had made, one for himself and one for Sherlock. He shoved a coke in the crook of his arm and grabbed another in his free hand, then headed down to the basement. At least she had left the light on. “Sherlock?” he called out, but got no response.

He looked first at the big cage they'd been in last night and then the other one. Sherlock was crammed into it, it was barely big enough for him to look up, but he wasn't anyway, he was staring at the floor. John didn't know quite how he was supposed to feed him through the bars let alone how Sherlock was supposed to swallow in such a position. 

John set the drinks and the plate down by the cage, then knelt down by it himself. “Come on, Sherlock, look at me.” He sighed in frustration at the lack of response. “I don't know what has got into that head of yours, maybe it's like method acting, but it has to stop. You don't deserve any of this.”

The doctor poked his fingers through the bars, trying to ruffle Sherlock's hair. He didn't push into it or even pull away. “You're going to have to come out of there if you want some lunch, 'Lock.”

At Sherlock's lack of response, John tried again. “Molly wants you to eat. I didn't just take it upon myself to feed you.” That, at least, got a small movement, so John opened the cage. He tugged on the leash and Sherlock shuffled out. 

“Sit up, 'Lock.”

When he still didn't respond John sighed. He placed the plate down and stood to get their 'owner'. 

John and Molly stood before the detective who still knelt, unresponsive.

“He barely listens to me, miss.” The doctor couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. “Not unless he thinks it's your will.”

She rolled her eyes. “How tedious.” She took Sherlock by the jaw. “I don't have time to deal with you every moment of the day. You'll do as John says. He's your caretaker. Do you understand?” She squeezed her grip on Sherlock's chin. 

“Yes, mistress.”

That was when Molly realised the perfect way of breaking them both. 

“He's above you. Not above me, that will never happen, but he's more than you. You'll respect him how you respect me. Unless I say otherwise.”


	3. Chapter 3

John hadn't been allowed to share a cage with Sherlock for the last three nights, not since having been put in a position of authority over him. Molly had insisted the detective sleep in one, however, so John had put him in the larger one. As for himself, he'd been given a lilo which he'd pulled over next to the cage to be as close as possible to the other man.

Molly had given John a mass of blankets to keep his shoulder comfortable, but since it seemed like the two of her slaves were being pushed apart she hadn't bothered listening anymore. Amazing what a few days of being harsh could achieve. She therefore didn't know that when she went up to bed, John opened the cage and wrapped the naked detective in some of the blankets. He always had to be sure to be up before Molly so he could take them out again, but he wasn't as cold because he was fully clothed unless Molly wanted him to do something or she felt like he needed reminding of his place.

John would explain Sherlock's symptoms as ones of shock, but it had been 3 days and nothing had changed. Well, except Sherlock now flinched whenever Molly came in the room. He couldn't work out what had caused such a massive shift in his behaviour, but he didn't like it.

John was folding the blankets as he did every morning when he heard Molly's steps on the stairs. “Morning, miss.”

“John. His presence,” she kicked the cage, “has been requested. Make him presentable. You'll both be coming to the lab with me today.”

“Yes, miss.” Even as he spoke, he glanced at Sherlock, he hadn't reacted at all. If there was anything that John could have said would put Sherlock back to 'normal', whatever that was, it would be a case. He opened the cage as Molly disappeared back upstairs to get ready. “Come on, 'Lock, out you come. Time for a shower.”

Sherlock crawled out of the cage lethargically. If it were just himself, he would have stayed where he was, consequences be damned, but he had to think of John. Good, kind John who had foolishly followed him into this nightmare of his own free will. He crawled after the doctor towards the small bathroom. John slipped from his top and shorts as he turned the water on.

“Come on, up on your feet. You can prove to Molly you can be trusted today and then she may let you out of the cage.”

Sherlock didn't really care. The cage made things easy. He didn't have to think when he was in it. He didn't get John in trouble when he was in the cage. He got unsteadily to his feet, hating how much he liked it when John's arm slid around him, offering him its support.

John helped him to shower and change. He grabbed both their leashes on the way to the stairs. Molly was waiting on the chair when they finally made it up to the sitting room.

She stood and walked around them, frowning at Sherlock. “He's too skinny. Make him eat more.”

Instead of pointing out that she had starved him for several days on and off, John replied, “Yes, miss.” It would be a challenge. Sherlock's tenuous appetite seemed to have fled altogether.

“Start now.” She pointed at the kitchen. “You have 15 minutes. Sally will be at the Morgue with Detective Inspector Dimmock at 9.”

“Yes, miss,” John repeated.

Molly stared at the detective until he answered too. “Yes, mistress,” he whispered.

When they were safely in the kitchen and out of sight, John pulled down a package of chocolate hobnobs. He should be able to get those into Sherlock easily enough. “Come on, 'Lock, eat some of these. If not for yourself, then for me.”

A lone tear pooled at the corner of Sherlock's eye. He didn't want to eat, nor did he want to get John in trouble so he took a bite of the proffered treat. When he'd eaten enough for John's satisfaction, the doctor cupped his cheek trying to make eye contact. When he failed, he sighed, took him by the hand and led him out to Molly again.

“Just in time. John, you can ride up front with me. Make that thing kneel in the back.” She glanced at her smart phone, checking the temperature. “He can have his coat, but cuff his hands to the collar he has on.”

John glanced sadly at the younger man, who seemed disinterested in proceedings, but nodded. “Yes, miss.” He ran down to the dungeon to grab the cuffs, soft padded ones, rather than the metal he was sure Molly would use. “Come on, Sherlock,” he tugged him outside and into the back of their owner's car. “In you get, babe, I am sorry about this.”

As the new normal, Sherlock didn't respond only knelt where told.

John couldn't bear this unresponsiveness. He decided to do something to shake a response out of the other man. He pressed a kiss to his temple. “Please, don't hide from me like this. It hurts.”

“I'm not hiding, sir,” he whispered, he lowered his head and let John cuff his wrists to his collar.

“John, get a move on!” Molly yelled. She waited for him to close the door and join her in the front. “Deliberately making me late to get me in trouble. It's my job on the line not yours.”

John stared out the window, Sherlock's 'sir' sitting like lead in the pit of his stomach. If he hadn't already hated Molly before, he would certainly hate her now just for that. As it was, his hatred grew exponentially day by day. He made a point to keep using the wing mirror to glance at the detective but he hadn't changed position at all.

When they pulled up outside Barts, Molly ordered John to control his fellow slave or they'd both pay the consequences.

The doctor had thought they were going to the lab, but they went directly to the morgue. Both Donovan and Dimmock were already waiting there.

Sally smirked at the sight Sherlock presented and turned a smile on Molly. “It's nice to see the Freak being put in his place.”

DI Dimmock frowned at Donovan, truly noticing her vindictive streak for the first time. While Sherlock's current humiliating treatment was technically legal, it was unusual and considered cruel. “Are you going to release him, Miss Hooper? I asked him here because I need his help not to be a baby sitter.”

“Hmm? Oh yeah.” She handed John the key. “Keep him out of trouble or else.”

John tried to keep from answering, but Molly refused to leave until he did. With a satisfactory answer had been heard, she disappeared down to the lab.

Sherlock lowered his hands as soon as he was able and shoved them into his pockets. He kept his eyes trained on the floor.

Dimmock met John's eyes, his eyebrows raised in question. The doctor shook his head and gave the smallest of shrugs.

“What's the matter, Freak?” Donovon taunted. “Have you finally learned you place? Learned who your betters are?”

Just as John was about to break, Dimmock held up a hand in his direction, but he turned his head and spoke to Sally. “You're excused. I don't need your assistance with this after all. Go. Take. A break. I don't want to see you down here for the remainder of the day.”

“But-”

“Now, sergeant!”

Donovan grumbled something as she followed the direction Molly had gone.

“We're in here,” Dimmock said pushing a side door open. There were two bodies laid out on tables.

Sherlock walked over to the nearest of them and there was the briefest flicker of something like interest in his eyes, but it was quickly extinguished. He went about examining the body in a thorough, but unenthusiastic manner.

Dimmock leaned in close to John and whispered, “What's up with him?”

“I don't know,” John whispered back, remembering his place, he was a slave too after all. “I think he's... given up. I can't believe it, he's Sherlock, but...” He shrugged.

“Was that treatment… normal?”

John inclined his head then nodded once before deciding he needed to answer. “At Molly's.”

“Is there anything I can do?

John just shook his head. “I don't know. Maybe simply having a case will help. You know, get him thinking about something besides whatever is going on inside that brain of his.”

“I'll see if I can keep them coming, but we don't get murders every day, thank god.”

“Maybe even the 'boring' ones. Or cold cases? You could have him do some of them at Molly's or even back at Baker Street if she ever lets us go home again.”

“What are the odds of that?” Dimmock asked.

John sighed. “Somewhere between zero and non-existent.”

“I'll try to keep Sally out of the way as well. I have no idea why she hates him so much.”

“To be fair, the feeling is mutual.”

“No. I saw the way she was looking at him.” Dimmock shuddered. “I'm glad she didn't buy the two of you.”

John wasn't sure it would have been any worse, but he wasn't about to say it. God knows what Molly would do to the pair of them if she found out and still kept them.

“What have we got, Sherlock?” He asked stepping forward to scour the bodies himself.

“There are oil based paints on their hands. Artist paints, not what would be used on walls or furniture.” Sherlock's voice sounded flat, without enthusiasm. “Judging by their ages, could be students. Starving artists types. Took pride in the fact, I would imagine. Where did they live, cheap flat in a bad area?”

“Well, actually one did. The other lived on millionaire's row with both parents.”

“Could this have something to do with them?” John asked, he was looking at the bruising around their necks.

Sherlock looked up at John's question. He should have seen that. He sighed. “Most likely. Have you spoken to the parents, Detective Inspector?”

“It's Paul and no. I thought you might like to accompany me?”

Sherlock immediately panicked, stumbling forward and barely catching himself against the examination table. If the other two men were talking, he couldn't hear them. All he could hear was a white noise in his ears. All he could see was his hands gripping the edge of the table. Mistress would never allow such a thing. Never. He might misbehave, embarrass her; cause John to get punished.

John froze at the sight of the detective. Could he really be so broken, so quickly, so suddenly? “Sherlock? Sherlock, what is it?”

“Mistress won't let us,” he whispered.

“You don't know that, babe,” John tried to catch Sherlock's hands, but they were pushing through his curls.

Dimmock strode purposefully to Molly's office. Even if he hadn't needed Sherlock's expertise on the case, he would have asked for him after witnessing that. He wouldn't take no for an answer.

John waited until they were alone. “Sherlock, you have to tell me what is really going on. You're too strong for this. Molly couldn't have broken you. Please, tell me.”

“I'm a slave, sir. You're a slave too. Because of me.”

“No, no, no. Not because of you. Never because of you. You were framed, Sherlock. I needed to be with you to help. This'll get better when Mycroft and Greg get back.” John couldn't help himself, he petted Sherlock's face and hair almost frantically. “And please, please, don't call me 'sir', unless someone's around to hear it. I'm not your master, or your better or any such rubbish.”

“You are. Mistress said so.” He took a step back from John, but the doctor followed, then the door swung open and Molly stormed in followed closely by Dimmock.

“The Inspector says you're making a show of yourself? Is this true?”

“I didn't-” Dimmock cut off.

Molly gestured towards Dimmock. “He made a simple request for your assistance and you didn't answer him.”

“I'm sorry, Mistress, I didn't think it was my place.” Sherlock fell to his knees and looked down at the floor.

“Since John can't handle you, he can stay here with me. I understand Sally is familiar with this case. She can be your handler while you assist the Detective Inspector.”

“Miss, please-”

“Enough. John, go and kneel in my office.”

John didn't know what to do; he was sat on the fence. He settled for making it look like he was leaving, but waiting at the door.

Sherlock continued to stare at the floor, Molly stepped forward and yanked him to his feet by the hair. “Sally, here's the spare key,” Molly said handing it over as she cuffed Sherlock's wrists behind him.

“He's all yours, Inspector.”

Paul Dimmock had had few dealings with the man, his first had left him confused, but impressed. Other cases involving him had never caused him to have a great love for Sherlock Holmes, but he respected him for what he could do. Right now, he was furious, and felt a righteous anger on his behalf, but he hadn't actually seen anything reportable as outright abuse. He would keep his eyes open, however. “Alright, Sherlock. Come on,” he led him out to the police car, surprised because there was usually complaints of 'I want a cab' and he didn't get any.

Dimmock let Sally climb in before driving around the corner and pulling up.

“Now uncuff him, Sergeant.”

“No.”

“Yes. You'll uncuff him and you won't tell Molly or I'll file a reprimand for you disobeying a superior officer.” He glared at her. “In fact, you will treat him with the same respect you would give me, or a report about that little incident with you and Anderson in the copy room will make it onto the DCI's desk by morning.”

Donovan glared at him for a moment. “You wouldn't dream of it. There are many other-”

“Now, Donovan, or I will leave you here and take him myself! As well as look forward to writing that report.”

Sally reluctantly unlocked the cuffs, ready with a sharp retort to the cutting words she was certain Sherlock would shoot her way. They never came. She turned and threw herself back into her seat.

“Thank you,” the detective said in the direction of his feet. His words were meant for Dimmock alone.

With a glance in the rear view Dimmock pulled out again into traffic.

***

“I specifically told you to keep him under control!” Molly yelled to the back of John's head.

He had been knelt in the corner for what felt like forever, getting tenser and tenser the longer he waited for the hated woman to appear. “He didn't do anything wrong, miss. Sherlock was perfectly polite and helpful.” He swore as Molly struck him hard on the side of the head.

“I didn't ask your opinion, did I?”

“No, miss. But-”

“Enough John!” Molly barked in a way that reminded John of his female superiors in the army. He didn't know such a timid woman could be so grizzly and spiteful. “You can stay there while I think of your punishment for such a complete lack of obedience.”

The doctor's head thudded against the wall as he closed his eyes. He couldn't believe this, and the whole time this was happening, Sherlock was with someone who was a lot more publicly spiteful to him before his slavery let alone now. To make things worse, the younger man didn't seem to have the balls to stand up for himself.

***

They were waiting for the well-off parents of one of the student artists to open the door. Sherlock's shoulders were hunched and his hands were in his pockets. He was trying to take up as little space as possible, the complete opposite to normal; the flailing coat and hair.

As the door opened Sherlock managed to control his flinch. Just. A young lady with similar resemblance to Molly had opened the door.

Dimmock held up his warrant card as did Donovan, then he turned and introduced Sherlock. That was followed by, “Could we have a few moments with Mr. And Mrs. Wilson?”

“Of course, sir, come through, they're in the drawing room.”

Sherlock followed Dimmock and Donovan into the drawing room, his eyes automatically flicking around the room and taking it in, but doing so much more subtly than he would have before.

It was painfully obvious that the couple was hiding something, but he couldn't quite tell what. He needed to ask questions, but no matter how he did it, he would be sure to offend someone. Offending someone would get back to Mistress - look bad for her.

The young lady led them to a seat opposite the couple. The detectives sat down, Sherlock didn't. He wasn't quite sure what to do. He had his scarf on so they wouldn't know his status, but he just found himself stumped. He looked to Donovan, despite himself.

“What are you waiting for Fr-Sherlock? Ask your questions,” Donovan ordered.

All eyes were on Sherlock now. Rather than revel in is as he used to, it made him uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “Were there any indications that your daughter was in trouble, or her friend? Had any threats been made?”

The man shook his head instantly, but the woman was chewing on her bottom lip.

Seeing as Sherlock clearly wasn't about to push, Dimmock did, “It's really important that you tell us. I understand you're upset, but if there's anything you can tell us we have a chance at not letting this repeat itself.”

The more Mr. Wilson denied any threats, the more agitated his wife became. She started glancing at a nearby decorative box. Sherlock leaned over and whispered something in Dimmock's ear. The DI's eyebrows shot up. “Mrs. Wilson, is there something in that box you would like to show us?” He asked.

“No,” her husband interjected.

“Go and look,” Dimmock ordered the detective. Sherlock's eyes flickered to Donovan.

“What are you waiting for?” Sally asked.

Inside the box were several notes, all of which made specific threats of kidnapping and monetary demands to prevent it from happening. Sherlock passed them all to Dimmock. He leaned in and whispered, “You have two bodies because the kidnappers made a mistake. They surprised Miss Wilson and the second artist whilst they were working on a collaborative project. The students put up a fight and had to be killed.” He looked down, seeming surprised at having spoken so many words and stepped behind Dimmock, trying to fade into the background.

The DI watched him for a moment then looked back to the Wilsons. “Thank you for your time. If you have any questions,” he pulled a small business card from his inside pocket and left it on the table.

As soon as they were outside Donovan grabbed the detective and threw him into the wall. She yanked his hands around behind him, cuffing him once again.

“Sally, uncuff him. At least until we get back to Barts. He behaved perfectly.”

Sherlock shook his head as best he could, knowing her vindictive streak. “It's okay, sir. Really. It's nothing I don't deserve.”

“Shut it!” Donovan hissed, she pulled him away from the wall and dragged him unprotestingly to the police car.

“Despite his situation you are being far too cruel,” Dimmock said to her after she had pushed Sherlock into the back seat.

“He killed someone, Detective Inspector, just like I always said he would.”

Dimmock saw a flash of something, almost denial, reflected in those blue-grey eyes where he saw them in the mirror and he wondered. “Still, Sally, I can't help but think it would have been kinder to have left him in prison, what with the way he's being treated.”

“You know the laws. You know how they work and why. Why is his position any different? I can't believe you're even considering him being mistreated. After everything he's done and said. He's an arse and deserves everything that he gets.”

Dimmock sighed. “Just pretend you don't know him. Treat him like you would any other suspect, yeah. One you hadn't seen pull the trigger.”

Crossing her arms, Sally nodded and didn't say another word.

***

Molly set the report she had been working on aside and looked at John with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Oh, Johnny Boy, I've finally figured out the perfect punishment for you. Would you like to hear it?”

John tensed where he knelt, still facing the wall. “No, miss. But you're going to tell me anyway.”

“Turn around. I want to see your face when I do.”

John shuffled around and looked Molly in the eyes, wishing looks could kill.

“When we get home, you, Doctor Watson, will cane Sherlock. 20 strokes, I think.”

“Miss, No!”

“John, Yes! Or I will give him 40.” Molly grinned with wicked delight. “And I'll be watching. You'll give him hard strokes or I'll take over and start from the beginning.”

“But, miss, please!”

“The perfect punishment, don't you think? I can punish you while punishing him!”

“Miss, he's done nothing wrong.”

“Of course he has! He breathed didn't he? He observed. He deduced. And none of it was aimed at the task I have for him.” Molly got a far off look. “He's almost ready.” She glared at John. “You'll see that he's ready!”

“Miss-”

“Enough. He'll be ready and you'll help him.”

John couldn't help but think that Molly was actually going insane if she wasn't already there. Just as he was about to argue further the door opened and Donovan dragging a cuffed Sherlock appeared.

“How did he behave?” Molly asked sweetly.

John could see the witch of a sergeant wanting to say something snide, but the DI had appeared at the door and spoke up, “He was very polite and helpful. Thank you for letting us borrow him, Miss Hooper. Hopefully, you'll consider letting us do so again.” He hesitated. “I'm sure we could compensate you for his time.”

“No need, as long as he doesn't show me up. After all, I did buy him for his help rather than his attitude. Go and kneel by John, boy.”

Sherlock did as he was told, though it was awkward doing so with his hands cuffed as they were. He also felt guilty for taking so much comfort in John's proximity, but simply being near him made him feel better.

As soon as the others had left, Molly turned and closed her door, locking it. She stalked over to her two slaves. “I could tell by Donovan's expression that you were an arrogant prick. I'll let John beat it out of you this time. Go ahead, bend over my desk.”

“Mistress?” Sherlock questioned, confused. Even so, he struggled to his feet.

“Miss, that wasn't a 'he was an arrogant prick' look it was an 'I can't believe he wasn't an arrogant prick' look.”

“Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!” She slapped John, hard, seeming less stable than they had ever seen her. Molly shoved Sherlock forward until he was bent over her desk, only then realising his arse was still covered. “Drop your trousers and pants,” she growled maniacally.

Sherlock was still cuffed, but he managed to do so with shaking fingers, wondering what would happen if she truly snapped.

“John, give him 20 of your hardest blows. I want to hear him crying.”

Molly struck John's own arse with the cane before she handed it over.

“Now, boy!” She ordered.

The doctor stepped forward and ran his hand over Sherlock's cuffed hands, down to his still bruised arse from days before.

“Miss, he's still-”

“I don't care! Do it, Watson!”

John took a deep breath. “Sherlock, I'm so sorry for this.”

“It's fine, sir,” Sherlock whispered back, pressing his face hard into the wood of the desk.

Despite Molly's orders, John held back. Each blow still had to hurt like hell and he only got through it by imagining pummelling Molly's backside.

Sherlock was at least thinking somewhat and let his tears run freely to satisfy the woman that was their owner.

When John had finished, he dropped the cane to the desk and covered his face with shaking hands. He loathed himself at the moment, no doubt that was what Molly had wanted.

“See,” Molly whispered, grabbing Sherlock's sweaty curls and yanking his head back. “Do you know what I said to him? It was you or him. Look what he chose.”

“No!” John shouted. “You know that's not true. She said she'd...”

Molly let go of Sherlock and swung around hitting John so hard that she sent him sprawling. “Not another word, or I'll cane him myself.”

Behind her, Sherlock gave John a look of understanding, it was all he had that he could give, then he turned his back on him as though he believed Molly's every word. Combined with how he had been acting recently, she believed it.

“It's ok, my poor lost boy. I know what it's like to be betrayed. He betrayed me, my own brother. I hate him for it.”

Sherlock straightened as Molly tugged him up by a finger in his collar.

“Your brother?” John asked seeing as Sherlock wasn't going to.

Molly brushed the tears away from Sherlock's face. “You know he has to stay above you, don't you? It will look too odd to others if you're above him.”

“Yes, mistress.”

She grinned like a maniac before kicking up, straight between Sherlock's legs. The specialist made Sherlock fall to his knees as he gasped and hissed in pain. She chained his collar to the desk leg and turned back on John.

“Yes, my brother. Jim.”


	4. Chapter 4

John looked up at her blankly, having still not got to his feet.

“Oh, you've met him, but he goes by another name. One he picked out himself.” Molly's mouth turned up in a wicked grin. “He's very dramatic, is my brother. He likes his little bombs, his snipers, his grand entrances.” She noted the look of horror on John's face. “Yes. Jim Hooper. James Moriarty. My brother.” She spat the last word.

John looked at Sherlock, hoping for his reaction to convey his own. But Sherlock just stayed where he was, not moving, staring at the floor, while his balls throbbed from their kick.

John wanted just five minutes alone with Sherlock, three even. As hard as Molly had hit him, she could have done serious damage to him and, dear Lord, they needed to talk. “Miss, please.”

“Please what? Going to plan ways to get me back? To escape?”

“No, miss.”

“Go back to the corner.”

“But-”

“Now, Watson! Move it.”

She kicked Sherlock on the way back around her desk to her chair. The detective just apologised, much to the doctor's horror.

Molly sat in her chair, then leaned forward. Grabbing Sherlock by the curls, she pulled his face around in her direction. “It hurts to be betrayed, I know that, dear boy. I'll take care of you. You'll always know where you stand with me.” She let go of his curls and let his head drop to her desk. “You do know where you stand with me, don't you?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“And where's that?”

“Below you, mistress. Below John, below everyone. I'm nothing, mistress.”

“Sherlock, no!” John was outraged, he actually meant it.

There was a John-like voice shouting at Sherlock. It was telling him that he was giving in too easily, that he should be fighting to maintain his hold on himself, but he didn't see why. John was so certain that Mycroft and Greg would sort things when they returned, but what if they never did. It was a stark possibility. Better to let himself break now than to fight it. He wanted to break now. He felt his head yanked again. “What are you thinking about, you insolent shit?”

“S-sorry, mistress.”

“I asked you a question!”

“I don't want to think anymore, mistress. Will you make it stop?”

“I won't,” she tugged his head from side to side by his curls, “but your boyfriend will. Oh, I forgot. He's not actually your boyfriend. How that must rankle.”

Molly untied his leash and walked him to the doctor, she pulled him to his feet by his own collar.

“Take him to the car. Make him as uncomfortable as you can. I've got a game for the two of you when we get home.”

“Yes, miss.” John tugged Sherlock's trousers closed. Molly couldn't object to that, any charge of public indecency would be directed at her, not her slaves.

As soon as they were safely out in the corridor, John tried to talk to Sherlock. “You can't do this, just surrender to that woman. She's insane. She's crazier than her brother. Please.”

Sherlock had kept walking, forcing the doctor to move with him as he spoke. Finally, at Molly's car, he turned and looked at him. “I believe you're meant to be making me uncomfortable, sir.”

“Sherlock, don't do this.”

“What part? The doing what I'm told part? Or the keeping you alive part?” Sherlock's gaze flickered to the window of Molly's office. “And anyway, I'm just as much your slave as I am hers. Sir,” he dropped to his knees in front of the doctor. “You better get creative, sir, I'm already cuffed.”

John bit his lip. “Maybe just kneeling on the floor would be enough.”

“Wrong, sir.”

“Dammit! Please don't call me that when no one is around.”

Sherlock shook his head, his expression sad. “Habits, sir, are best kept, not broken. Might I suggest pulling my coat off my shoulders and behind me, she's fond of seeing us cold. Perhaps use your belt as a makeshift gag. Shove me in the boot...”

“Stop, Sherlock, just stop! This isn't you. This isn't us.” He grabbed his shirt and pulled him to his feet. “This is-”

“Is there a problem here?”

John turned to see Donovan heading towards them, he shook his head. “None that concerns you!”

A snarl settled over Sally's face. “I see, the great detective's making trouble.”

“What?! No!” John denied. “It's my fault. Miss Hooper told me to do something and I didn't want to. I don't want to.”

“Do what?” She asked, stepping forward and grabbing Sherlock's ear. She twisted it making Sherlock hiss in pain.

“She wanted me to tie him up,” he said hurriedly. “Uncomfortably,” he added with distaste.

“Oh, I can deal with that.”

John was in no position to stop her as she hauled the detective to the back of the car and shoved him into the boot headfirst. She pulled her own cuffs from her pocket and joined his collar to the cuffs, pulling his arms up his back. Then she unclipped his leash and tied it around his head, wedging one side in his mouth.

“That wasn't hard, was it?”

Donovan waved at Sherlock then slammed the boot shut. “As for you, Watson, get in the back of the car and hope I don't report this incident to Molly.”

“Report what incident to Molly?”

The doctor closed his eyes. “Nothing, miss,” John said hurriedly.

“Don't lie to me, boy!”

“I couldn't do what you ordered, miss. Sergeant Donovan did it for me.” He desperately wanted her to believe him and for Sally to keep her bloody mouth shut.

“Couldn't? Why not? Your shoulder?”

John's gaze flickered to the sergeant, hoping against hope. The look she sent him meant it was a slim chance, but it was the only one he had.

“Yes, miss.”

“Ha!” Sally barked. “John was being all tender-hearted. He didn't want to hurt the Freak.” She rapped on the boot of the car with her fist. “But Sherlock's all tucked away now.”

Molly turned on the doctor. He had the sense to drop his head. “Miss, I-”

“Save it,” she hissed. “Thank you, Sally. See you later.”

She pulled John's leash from his pocket and clipped it to his collar. Pushing the passenger seat forward, she ordered John in the back, tying his leash to the bar at the back of the chair. She pushed the head rest up and pulled one of his arms through then cuffed his wrists together.

“You better get ready to punish him for your cock up, boy.”

John hit his head against the back of the seat in front of him. He should have just done as Molly had directed, but how could he have done?

Molly began speaking, “I'm thinking of every little thing our dear detective will hate and all the reasons that you'll do it.”

John sighed. “You know, he told me to do all those things to him. Like he wanted them. Just know, if he is mentally or even emotionally permanently effected by what you've done to him, you will be sorry when Mycroft gets here.”

“Oh, look who has an attitude. You just made things even worse for your boyfriend. As for Holmes senior, I extremely doubt his arrival any time soon.” Molly swiped at a strand of hair and stuck it behind her ear. “I know he doesn't use it much, but I think I'll let you cage that cock of his. That will show him his place. It's such a humiliating thing to do to a man, don't you think?”

John growled. His anger felt so much worse than when they'd been in a similar position a few days before. “You don't let me do anything,” he hissed.

“Be quiet, Watson.” Molly climbed behind the wheel. “You know exactly what will happen if you don't treat me with some respect or do as you are told, slave!”

John bit his lip and said not another word. He didn't speak even when they arrived at Molly's house or when she released him and opened the boot of the car. It was too great a risk. His mouth would get Sherlock in trouble.

“What are you waiting for? Help him out of the car. We're going straight to the basement.”

“Yes, miss,” he whispered. He reached in to help Sherlock and moved to untie his leash.

“Leave it!” Molly snapped. “Use yours to pull him.”

Sighing, John unclipped his own and snapped it onto Sherlock's collar.

“And you can leave his arms where they are, Sergeant Donovan's idea I presume?”

“Yes, miss,” John repeated.

He led Sherlock through and down to the basement. 

“Now what, miss?”

“I hate to, but it's for the greater good. You can uncuff him, but only so you can get his clothes off of him. He won't need them for what I have in mind.” She saw horror flash across John's face. “Oh, don't worry, Watson, I'm not going to touch him. You are.”

John stared at her for a long moment. It almost felt like as soon as the younger man had no clothes on, the fight for the evening was over, but going by the look on Sherlock's lowered face, he'd already given up. John just didn't know whether that was permanent or not.

“Strip him, Watson, or I'll do it. And I won't be so touchy feely.”

Sherlock hissed through his teeth when John had caught the key and uncuffed him.

“I'm sorry, 'Lock.”

The detective didn't respond. John moved to cup his cheek, Sherlock's expression had gone completely blank. Completely broken.

John wasn't normally a vindictive man, but right now, he was imagining a number of things he'd like to do to Molly. He started a list that he chanted in his head as he undressed Sherlock like a rag doll. He couldn't stop himself from running his hand over the bruised flesh of the detective's bum. Nothing Mycroft eventually did to Molly would be enough.

“Put him on the bench,” came the hated order.

When John didn't immediately move to comply, Sherlock did. He walked to the bench and climbed on it himself.

“Tie him up. I have a feeling even this puppet he's turned into won't be able to keep still once you start doing things to him.”

John took the rope she provided and set to work. He knew several knots from his army days and used some that would hold firm, but wouldn't cut off Sherlock's circulation. Hopefully that would satisfy Molly.

The specialist shoved him out of the way and looked at his handiwork, testing Sherlock's bonds. “Good work. Now the fun can begin. But don't worry, Johnny boy, I think we can supply you with a little pain as well.”

She took another length of rope from the side and ordered John to put his hands behind his head. Once he'd complied she undid his trousers and wrapped the rope around his balls and cock in a figure of eight, pulling it tightly. She then redid his trousers, pulling the loose end of the rope through his flies, then between his legs. She took a seat in one of the chairs tugging the rope taught a few times, when's she'd got the planned hiss of pain she grinned.

“You'll going to need that dildo with the battery and the sounding kit.”

John turned sharply, intending to glare at her, but his motion was cut short by pain as the rope pulled in unpleasant ways.

“Sorry, Johnny. Did that hurt?” She tugged the rope again.

The doctor braced himself and waited until she stopped tugging. “I'm sorry, miss,” he ground out.”

“Oh you can be much more polite than that, boy.”

She made him repeat it until she was satisfied. “Better, now get the stuff I've just told you to get. You're going to follow every command of mine. When you don't you get a tug on this,” she yanked hard on his balls and made him wince. “Every third time you mess up its 5 strokes of that cane, you know, the one in my room under my bed? The heavy duty one. The 5 strokes will be for him. Not you.”

John would have closed his eyes for a moment, but he daren't, not with Molly's threat hanging over Sherlock. He couldn't have cared less what she did to him, the detective was the one who mattered. John fetched the dildo and the sounding kit, his every step uncomfortable. In more ways than one.

“You're a doctor. Well, were a doctor. You know those sounds need to be properly cleaned, so don't worry, they're sterile. But why don't you get that lovely little dildo inside the brat first, yeah?”

John glanced at the dildo. It was anything but little.

“Yes, miss. But what about lube, miss?”

She shook her head. “I must have forgotten to buy any. You'll have to do without.”

This time, when John turned his back on her, he did close his eyes. He took a deep breath and let it out. If she just gave him time, he could still do this without damaging Sherlock, though it wouldn't be comfortable. The doctor licked his fingers, getting them wet. As he pressed one to Sherlock's entrance, he spoke soothingly, “Try to relax. Don't fight it.” Running his finger over the puckered flesh, he circled the entrance until his finger was drawn in.

“That's it,” he soothed, running his other hand up and down his back in what he hoped was a comforting motion. “I'm going to try my second finger now,” he said after a while, breathe through it, 'Lock.”

“Stop talking to him, Watson, he's not a child, despite how much he acts like it.”

John could feel Sherlock tense around his finger immediately. Stupid, hateful woman. He waited as long as he dared, giving the other man time to relax again, before pressing his second finger in slowly. He began scissoring his fingers gently, taking as much time as he thought Molly would give him. Finally he worked in a third finger.

The way Sherlock was tied meant he could turn his head. He had bitten down on his arm. Hard.

“Sherlock,” John tried stroking his by now sweaty hair. “You need to relax.”

“Enough!” Molly yelled tugging the rope sharply. “And that's 5 strokes of the cane for him.”

John's back went stiff. “Miss, please. He bit himself. He even drew blood. If someone were to see that-”

“Get. The. Cane. John. Now.” Molly jerked the rope hard enough to bring the doctor to his knees, gasping in pain. “I'll gag him, so Sherlock won't hurt himself anymore. Right, dear?” She addressed the last to the detective.

“Yes, Mistress,” Sherlock responded.

John would never admit it, but he was kind of glad Sherlock would be gagged, he couldn't hurt himself anymore. He struggled to his feet.

“Miss, may I?”

She looked down at the rope in her hand. “Oh yeah. Go.”

He returned, his legs spread slightly more than usual as he walked.

“I'm sorry, Sherlock,” he whispered as he handed Molly the cane.

She took it and hefted it a few times. “Johnny, if I do it, he gets 10 strokes. If you do it, he only gets 5. So, what will it be?”

John hated himself, hated Molly, but he held out his hand for the cane.

“Oh, John, you have to ask for it.”

“May I have the cane, Miss?”

“Why?”

John ground his teeth together. “So I can punish Sherlock for my mistake.”

“You hear that, Sherlock? John wants to punish you.”

The doctor closed his eyes as she handed him the cane. He did the same as what she had done, hefting it a few times. He stood thinking, what was stopping him from striking out, hitting Molly instead of Sherlock?

The answer was of course, obvious. Striking one's master was an instant death sentence, unlike even murder. If he did that, Sherlock would still be a slave, but he'd be away from Molly. John could kill her. Maybe he would.

“Oh, Johnny Boy, if you kill me, my beloved brother inherits my property. I hate him!” She cocked her head to the side. “I suppose the two of you could run, but my brother would find you. He'd love to get his hands on Sherlock. Jim wouldn't be gentle like me.”

“Gentle!” John yelled.

“That's 10 strokes.”

The doctor froze, looking down at the cane in his hand.

“As you can't seem to control yourself. Give me the cane.”

“No. Miss, please. I'm sorry.”

“Cane, Watson, now!”

Trembling slightly, the blond handed it over.

“I'm going to keep a tally, you can give it to him at the end.”

“Yes, miss,” John said, knowing a reply was expected.

“Now, you have 90 seconds to get that dildo inside of him. Starting now.” She was looking at her watch.

John grabbed the thing, throwing all dignity aside and taking it into his mouth. He'd give Sherlock what little help he could with his spit. As soon as he could be began working he dildo into him.

“Oh come on, Johnny, that's only the half of it. Just wait until you start filling that pretty little cock of his.”

John honestly didn't know what was worse. The dildo he was trying to get into his best friend or the idea of trying to get him to take a sound.

Finally, the dildo was in all the way. Sherlock's head was turned to the side so his face was visible, his teeth pressing hard into the newly acquired ball gag. John forced himself to look at him. The detective's eyes were screwed tightly shut, there was a sheen of sweat across his forehead and he was breathing shallowly. John wanted to offer words of comfort, but daren't with Molly present.

The woman brushed John aside and stepped up to look at Sherlock's bruised and violated arse. She turned and handed the doctor a role of duct tape she had picked up while he was busy. “Turn it on, then use this to hold it in place. I don't want it going anywhere.”

John sighed, if only they had been in an actual relationship before all this had started, Sherlock would have at least had experience in that department.

Once he'd done what Molly had said, he untied certain knots and then turned him over.

“Tie his arms back to his collar. Behind his head,” she added. “And open your eyes, boy!” She snapped at him. “You're going to want to watch this.”

“Miss, can I take the gag out now?” He couldn't help but notice how spread wide Sherlock's jaw was. He didn't want it in there any longer than it had to be and it was worth the risk of further punishment for speaking out of turn.

Molly raised an eyebrow, then looked at Sherlock. “Why not? I'm sure he'll make the most amusing noises. Remove it, slave.” She waved her hand imperiously.

John unbuckled the gag and set it aside.

Sherlock worked his jaw almost absently as he fought to keep his eyes open against the new sensations that were threatening to overwhelm him. He didn't think he could take much more.

“Go on then,” Molly ordered with a yank of the rope through his trousers.

“Are you in any pain?” John asked him.

The detective's eyes flickered to him. “No, sir.”

The doctor bit his lip, then nodded to himself. Sherlock had gotten hard despite the unwanted nature of the situation, something would have to be done about that. John turned and faced Molly. “Miss, may I have some ice? I can't insert a sound with him in this state. The ice would help the- ah- situation.”

“Oh, Johnny. I like the way you think.” She caught Sherlock's eye. “Did you hear that, slave? Your boyfriend thought of that all on his own. I guess he enjoys seeing you squirm.”

“Miss, that's not-”

Despite his immediate protest he couldn't help but be rather proud of the 'boyfriend' comment. It didn't matter what state Sherlock was in to even be considered as his boyfriend was an honour.

“Ah!” She held up a finger. “No arguments.”

She stood to go and find some ice leaving the doctor with Sherlock alone for the first time in what felt to be forever.

John bent down close to Sherlock's ear, ignoring the pull of the rope and whispered, “Sherlock, I'm so sorry. If I hadn't suggested the ice, she would have come up with something worse. And, oh God, the cane. I should be the one getting beaten, not you. Never you. Tell me you believe that.”

Sherlock simply turned his head away as Molly's footsteps echoed down the stairwell. John straightened up quickly, causing the rope to pull beneath his jeans.

Molly pressed a few ice cubes into his hand.

“Get a move on then, boy.”

Molly relaxed back in her chair, pulling the rope taught like a dog on a leash.

“Sherlock, you're going to listen to me while John plays. You remember Jim don't you?”

The detective's face screwed up as John applied the ice, but he nodded.

“Silly boy. I expect to hear words from you. That's what? 11, I believe. Anyway, you do remember Jim?”

Sherlock swallowed. “Yes, Mistress.”

Molly smiled a deceptively charming smile. “I told you I don't like him. Very few people do.” Her voice went childlike. “He's a very bad man.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he repeated.

“Well, you seem pretty much like a puppet now. Nothing bothers you and you've already committed murder so another isn't going to bother you, is it?”

This got the first real reaction John had seen from the other man for some time. Sherlock's eyebrows drew down and his face screwed up.

“John, everything's sterile. Get to it.” She walked around the bench, waiting until the doctor had cleaned the tip of Sherlock's cock with an alcohol wipe and started inserting the sound. “That's 12. Now, another murder isn't going to bother you, is it?”

Sherlock could interpret her words however he wished. Murders happened every day and he wasn't bothered by them, so- “No, Mistress.” He'd take his punishments, he deserved them, but he wouldn't kill for Molly. Not even James Moriarty.

“Well, he's got our parents' house across London, you probably don't know of it, he's very secretive of that sort of thing. Every Friday he leaves to meet with his network, you know about that, don't you? Of course you do. That is the perfect time to strike.”

Sherlock felt like his cock was being turned inside out. It didn't hurt, not really. It felt like- It just felt wrong, and John kept having to stop and ice him. Molly droned on and on. Suddenly, she slapped him.

“What was I saying to you?!” Molly screeched.

Sherlock gasped. “Friday, Mistress. Best time to strike. Leaves parent's old house.” He brought his head up off the bench, then dropped it again. He just wanted what was happening down below to stop.

“Best time for you to strike,” she amended. “And your doctor will help you. I've had Sally remove his SIG from evidence at New Scotland Yard, far easier then, isn't it? Oh and Watson, stop being a moron, he clearly needs a bigger one than that,” she reached forward and grabbed his filled cock, squeezing it in a fist.

The detective gasped, his eyes screwed shut tightly in pain.

“Go three sizes bigger.”

“Miss, that could-”

“I don't care. Do it.”

Sherlock tensed involuntarily as the sound was withdrawn. The sensation was still odd, but he could describe it to himself as a long, drawn out orgasm. When it was out, he sagged in relief, but it was short lived. Sherlock saw the larger sound in John's hand and couldn't stifle a small sob.

“Ah,” Molly cooed as if Sherlock was 3 rather than 33. “Does that look big and scary?” She slapped him. “Never mind. Get on with it, Watson.”

John hadn't given up hope completely, just on the current situation. He couldn't get either of them out of this without the consequences being at least twice as severe as they already were. He placed the tip of the new sound at Sherlock's slit.

At Sherlock's mewl of distress, the doctor's hands started shaking. He couldn't do this. He couldn't. His hands steadied. He had to. When the sound breached Sherlock, the detective's hips started shifting of their own accord.

“Stop that!” Molly slapped Sherlock. “You'll hurt yourself.”

John couldn't help but scream in his mind, 'that's rich coming from you!' But he daren't say it. Never say it.

Molly was looking around until her eyes found a leather strap. “Use this to hold his hips in place.” She tossed it to John.

“Yes, miss,” he whispered quietly. He clipped the strap in place and gave his belly a quick, fleeting rub.

“When you get that in place you can stick the cage on him and milk him daily. It'll keep him placid until Friday.”

***

Mycroft stepped out of the loo into the bedroom. He was drying his hair and had put on a dressing gown that was open. Sitting down by Greg, he took the folder the other man was holding. “What's wrong?”

“Anthea just dropped these off along with our laptops and phones. It's…”

Mycroft flipped through the newspaper clippings and the other information Anthea had compiled.

Greg cleared his throat. “She said we weren't meant to know about this, not yet. Someone doesn't want you interfering.”

“Sherlock didn't kill that man. It's obvious.” Mycroft stood, throwing the file angrily to the floor. “If he had, he wouldn't have got caught.”

“Mycroft, the mission-”

“Fuck the mission!” He swung the door open. “Anthea, Gregory and I are going home.”

“Sir-”

“Sort it!” He ordered.

He turned back into the room. “If someone went through all this hassle to get Sherlock arrested, what are they doing to him?”

The DI had continued reading what Mycroft hadn't. “John too.”

“What? He'd only kill to protect Sherlock.”

“No, he didn't kill, Myc. Robbed a bank. They've both been bought, they aren't at the Yard or prison.”

“Bought by who?” The first name to pop into both of their heads was Moriarty.

“Miss Hooper?” The DI was shocked. “I don't…” he dropped the file. “My head hurts.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was on the St. Andrew's cross in the corner. Secured by his wrists, neck, waist and feet. He could barely touch the floor. There was also something else, extremely uncomfortable about his position. The dildo up his arse. Molly had made him slowly impale himself on it before strapping him down.

John, so far today, hadn't been allowed to touch him. He didn't know if that was good or bad. He knelt beside Molly completely naked too. His hands were cuffed behind him and she repeatedly stroked his cock, not giving him any leeway at all, squeezing roughly and tugging persistently. There wasn't a single thing arousing about it. Her touch was repulsive. Any response John's cock gave her was purely biological in nature and wholly unwanted. He wanted to growl at the woman when she reached up and touched Sherlock's cock in a similar fashion.

“You upset there, Johnny boy? This is nothing compared to when you milk him for the first time.”

John glared and then lowered his head.

“And then by Friday he'll be ready.”

“Yes, miss,” John said automatically. It was Tuesday. That meant three more full days in the hands of their mad owner. The ex-army doctor had already decided he was using Friday's little outing to get Sherlock away from Molly. He just didn't know how. Molly's hand tightened bruisingly hard around John's cock and he cried out involuntarily.

Sherlock's head snapped over to look at him but he didn't speak or try to stick up for him. Apart from his head dropping back to stare at the floor again Sherlock hadn't moved at all for the last hour when John had had to watch Molly tying him up.

Sherlock felt numb inside. Nothing that happened to him seemed to matter anymore. What happened to John mattered, but he daren't show any concern for the other man. It wasn't his place to do so anyway.

Molly gave a bright laugh, one that didn't sound nearly as maniacal as it should. “Oh, my precious slaves. I'm going to be free of Jim and you,” she gave Sherlock's cock a rough tug, “are going to be free from the burden of thinking for yourself. John and I will do that for you.”

John couldn't do anything and if he spoke he didn't know what would happen.

“Miss, he's been up there an hour.”

“What's your point?”

“You want him able bodied for Friday, miss.”

Molly let go of John's cock only to slap him in the face. “I want him humble and compliant!” she shouted, then in a calmer tone, she continued, “but maybe you're right. Get him down from there.”

John grinned and waited for her to uncuff him.

“Only joking! She wrapped her hand around his cock and pulled him towards the detective.

“You will go and get the milking machine.”

Molly pressed John's face against Sherlock's leg as she uncuffed him. “You can crawl to the machine and walk back with it.”

The doctor crawled over to the milking machine she had shown him earlier. Molly had taken care to explain that it was a custom device of high quality and power and would rip orgasm after unwilling orgasm from Sherlock's body.

He pulled it over in front of the detective and got a smack across the back of the head when he got there. She hit him so hard he fell to the floor. The doctor pushed himself to his knees looking up at the woman in disgust.

She tossed him a bottle of lube. “Fill the chamber with that. You know, put it where his little cock goes.”

John put a generous amount of lube in the chamber, figuring it was better too much than not enough. He hesitated, then went ahead and seated the chamber over Sherlock's cock, hoping to avoid as much unpleasantness as possible.

Sherlock should have been watching the machine, should have been fighting it. Instead he just looked straight ahead, stared at the wall, disinterested.

John sniffed. This isn't what it should be. This isn't how Sherlock should be!

Molly watched her slaves, pleased at how they were shaping up - Sherlock broken and John getting there. She'd break the doctor after Jim had been taken care of. With a smile, she flicked the switch on the milking machine, turning it on.

The detective jolted but that was the only response that was recognisable. Molly moved around behind the trussed man, she began fiddling with the dildo she had made him force himself down onto. A second jolt told John she'd done something to make it move.

Even as little as Sherlock cared about what was being done to his body, he wished it wouldn't respond, but it did. His muscles had tensed up and he was slowly starting to shake.

John didn't know what to do. He wanted to step forward and calm the younger man, soothe him, but he daren't.

Molly seemed to fix that problem for him by grabbing him by the collar and yanking him over to the nearest wall.

She grabbed a nearby leash and clipped it to John's collar then to a hook on the wall. “Enjoy the show, Johnny Boy. It could go on for hours.”

John's eyes darted to where the hook was and then to Sherlock.

“Oh, you aren't going anywhere, brat.” She grabbed his chin in her fist. “Kneel,” she hissed and at the one second delay kicked him in the balls.

John would have doubled over in pain, but his leash didn't afford him the room to do it. He breathed through it barely registering the sounds that had started coming from Sherlock.

“When I tell you to kneel, you kneel, you cocky little shit!” She yelled in his face.

John gritted his teeth, reminding himself of what he had said in his head the day before about lashing out at one's master. He also tried to forget about the kick and the resulting pain. Sherlock, by the sound of it had already orgasmed once and his already over sensitive cock was still being tugged mechanically.

“What do you say?”

John took a deep breath. “I'm sorry, miss.”

“So you should be. He was going to orgasm 3 times. Since you've been very wilful today it will be 5 and I don't care if they are dry or not. From this point every further action you do to disappoint me I will add on one addition orgasm for him. Could you imagine how sensitive his cock will be? Well you won't have to, you'll get to see!” She clapped her hands in glee and for the first proper time John actually saw a heck of a lot of James Moriarty in her.

The slave dropped his head. “Yes, miss,” he guessed one action that would disappoint her would be a lack of response.

Sherlock concentrated on breathing and tolerating what was happening to him down below. It was merely sensory input - nothing that really mattered and, more importantly, nothing he didn't deserve for the way he had always treated John.

The way he had treated Molly…

Molly followed John's eyes to the detective. “Something to say boy?!” She barked in his direction.

“Yes, Mistress,” he panted, not looking at her.

She released her newly required grip on John's bollocks and turned to the tied slave completely.

“Speak.”

“I'm sorry, Mistress. For everything. I know I deserve this treatment, Mistress. For the way I treated you. For the way I treat John.”

Molly chuckled. “Oh, yes. You definitely deserve it.” She stalked across the room and stood in front of Sherlock with her arms crossed. “You haven't thanked me for your orgasm, yet. I know I'm not actually touching you, but a girl likes to know she's appreciated.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

She reached forward with both hands and twisted his nipples.

“For what?”

“Allowing me an orgasm, Mistress,” he stuttered.

“I think his nipples need attention. Get the clamps, Watson. You know, the sharp ones that really bite.”

She turned around and as if she had forgotten said, “oh I forgot you're a bit tied up right now. Well I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll pick up two pairs. His balls can have some and so can his nipples, then I'll cuff you and see if you would like the same treatment.”

Molly skipped over to the table where she kept her toys and picked two wicked looking sets of clamps. She held them up, one set in each hand, and let them dangle as she skipped over to show them to John. “Do you think he'll like them?”

John ducked his head. “Yes, miss,” he lied.

“Did you hear that, boy?” She skipped over to Sherlock, who had gone incredibly pale, his cock was still being tugged at the same pace and his energy was drained as his sweat soaked his hair.

“Yes, Mistress,” he answered quietly he didn't have the energy to speak any louder.

“Oh Johnny when he's done for the day you'll put his red raw cock back into his cage. Even with the little sound.”

The wrung out detective whimpered as another orgasm jarred through him. It was just as intense as the previous one. All he wanted to do was curl up somewhere and find a bit of peace. He gasped as a clamp bit down on his nipple and was tugged.

“You forgot to say thank you.” Molly tugged on the chain attached to the clamp again.

“I'm sorry, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.”

“You're sick!” John spat from across the room.

“That's 6 orgasms tonight.”

Sherlock didn't respond like he once would have done, not even as the second clamp attacked his other nipple or even when the other pair were clipped onto his balls. All he did was whimper and a single tear ran down his cheek to mingle with his sweat.

Molly ran a finger along Sherlock's jaw. “Poor dear. Poor Sherlock. Poor little slave.” She drew her finger back and licked it, then made a face. “Well, that was unpleasant.”

She flicked a switch on the machine and the fake cock inside Sherlock's arse pounded into him a little harder as did the suction around his own cock. She reached down and jerked the chain hanging between his balls and not for the first time that day John wished Sherlock had been gagged, at least he wouldn't be destroying his tongue and lips to stop from yelling out.

Even as those thoughts went through John's mind, Sherlock convulsed in another orgasm, this one almost completely dry. His eyes were screwed shut and his mouth was open in a silent scream.

Molly tugged on both chains, causing the clamps to bite into both the detective's bollocks and his nipples. “I am getting tired of reminding you to thank me.”

This time Sherlock needed a minute before he could even begin to contemplate answering.

“That was your fourth orgasm, brat, you've got two more but I can always add on a seventh if you don't want to talk.”

“Miss, please, he's whacked. He needs a lie down; a rest.”

She pulled on the chain that hung between Sherlock's nipples, then raised it to his mouth. “If you can't manage to thank me, you can hold this. If you don't drop it, I might relent at just six orgasms.”

Sherlock wanted to nod but knew doing so would likely drop the chain.

“And as for you, do you think I care that he's a little tired? He's my slave, he'll do whatever I want him to. As will you.”

When the next orgasm hit the detective, he bit down on the chain to keep from dropping it. His entire body shook from the intense sensations he was feeling, although he was so exhausted his juddering muscles soon gave out and went lax.

“One left, Sherlock,” John said, trying to convey the guilt he felt in his words.

“Shut it, Watson. Now, boy, you get a choice. I can turn both machines up so we get through this quicker or I can leave them as they are.”

The detective didn't know how to respond without dropping the chain and he knew dropping it would like earn him a seventh orgasm. He didn't know what dropping the it anyway would give him.

“E erst, Miswiss,” he said around the chain.

Molly's face lit up and she turned both devices up a notch. Sherlock's tired body jolted, but he was so exhausted, he didn't think another orgasm was even possible.

“I hope you orgasm soon, slave.” Molly looked at her watch. My favourite show starts in just a few minutes. I'd hate to have to take John and leave you like this while I watch it.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. Despite not thinking he could he tried his hardest to orgasm. He didn't want to let Molly down. Let John down… John... If only it had been John who brought him to orgasm not some cold, hateful machine in the hands. His body gave another pitiful spasm as he came again. Tears were running freely down his face and his jaw was locked to keep from dropping the chain.

Molly looked on, contemplating watching him come again but she decided against it. They could have some more fun tomorrow.

“Watson, you're going to remove him from the machine and the cross and come upstairs when you're done.”

She moved to release him. “Yes, miss.”

Their owner had left both machines on their higher notch as she disappeared up the stairs. Sherlock was whimpering around the chain, his teeth not letting it go even though Molly had gone. Each machine was trying to tug yet another release from him but he had nothing to give it.

John unclipped the leash from his collar and lurched towards the milking machine switching it off. Sherlock sagged in relief, the strongest point of sensation having ceased. Climbing to his feet, the doctor went behind the cross and turned off the dildo, giving Sherlock further relief.

John came back around the cross and tried to take the chain from the detective's mouth, but Sherlock's eyes were shut tight and he wouldn't release it.

“It's okay, Sherlock. You can let go.”

It was no use, the detective's grip on the chain didn't lessen in the least. John sighed and decided to go about things differently. He removed the clamps from Sherlock's balls, soothing them as best he could with his touch, then he did the same with the clamps on Sherlock's nipples. He let them dangle from the detective's mouth, harmless. Wincing in sympathy, he carefully removed Sherlock's cock from the milking chamber. It was left red raw, the lube having run out a while ago and John didn't know what he could do to soothe him.

He quickly untied his wrists, and Sherlock's groan as his arms lowered made him drop the chain from between his teeth.

His eyes snapped open in a panic. “I'm sorry, sir, I'm sorry, I didn't…”

John hated himself in the next moment, but he did what was needed to calm the detective. He grasped Sherlock by the chin and forced him to look him in the eyes. “It's ok, Sherlock. It was time to drop the chain. Molly is glad you did it. I'm glad you did it. You've done well. I'm very proud of you.”

Sherlock swallowed with difficulty trying to avert his eyes from the doctor.

John sighed and knelt to unbuckle his feet. He was ready when Sherlock's legs couldn't hold his weight and he caught him, lifting him up into strong arms.

When he had carried Sherlock up to where Molly was sat on the couch it took a matter of seconds before she had her first complaint.

“Why is his cock not caged?” She demanded.

“Miss! Look at him.” John lowered him to the floor and rolled him onto his back. Sherlock was breathing shallowly and didn't move.

“So?”

“Miss, as a doctor I can't let him have anything trapping him. He needs a few hours at least to heal.”

“I don't care. He will be ready for Friday and if I have to cage the both of you to make him so then so be it.”

John looked up at her with fire in his eyes. “Fine. Put cages on both of us, but no sound for him. I won't do it. I'd do it to myself first. He simply can't take it right now!”

Molly leapt to her feet and moved to stand over the both of him. “How dare you!”

Sherlock cowered away from her, bowing his head to the floor and John looked down at him, frustration eating away. He knew Molly couldn't sound him, that was why she had had John do it so that gave him some comfort but not for the immediate future and the look she was sending his way.

Molly drew back her foot and kicked the doctor. He was grateful for it. Maybe her ire would be directed solely at him for a change. She kicked him again, then began toeing at his cock roughly. “You know I think I might milk you. Suspend the Freak from the ceiling over there with the little rod in his cock that you will put in him. I'll make you kneel in front of me while a dildo thuds in and out of you. But I won't let you come I'm sure I have some ball stretchers down stairs that should do the job well.”

John seriously considered taking her out then and there. He thought it might be worth it.

“I can see what you're thinking, slave. I'll remind you, I have friends. You'll never make it out of here if something happens to me.” Molly stepped away from John and closer to Sherlock. “And if you don't put that rod in his cock, I'll have a go at it. How's that sound?”

She laughed at the pun even as John continued to glare at her.

Sherlock had rolled over during their argument and had pushed his head down as low as he could get it, despite the pain and exhaustion racking through him.

He reached out a hand towards John, but it fell to the floor. “Please, sir,” he whispered, “just do it. Don't make Mistress angrier.”

“Yes, John. Don't make me angrier. I'm furious already.” Molly crouched down, took Sherlock's abused cock in hand and twisted.

The detective cried out in agony but didn't fight her off.

“Stop it,” John yelled. “Just stop it! Miss! I'm sorry!”

She turned to look at him still squeezing Sherlock's cock.

“It's me that was rude, miss, not him, take it out on me!”

Sherlock was sobbing quietly to himself, sniffing and trying to hide it.

Molly let go abruptly. “Do as I ordered you, Watson, and maybe I'll do just that, take it out on you.” She stood and walked a circle around them. “Run along and get the cage, Watson.”

John stood immediately and walked reluctantly back down towards the basement.

Molly tilted Sherlock's tear stained face up to meet his gaze.

“How are you feeling, slave?”

“Not punished enough, Mistress.”

The answer surprised her. “Not punished enough? What for?”

“Being a slave, Mistress.”

Molly shook her head. “Get up and go and sit on the couch.”

That confused the detective but he daren't argue. He wouldn't. Not with Mistress. Or John.

Sherlock crawled to the couch, unable to stand. As tired as he was it was a chore to climb onto it, but he managed it but didn't have the energy to wonder what was going to happen next.

Molly watched him and wondered if he could possibly be so broken. It had been far too easy to do. She needed to devise a test of some sort.

John came back up from the basement holding two cages.

Molly took them, looking them over.

“You've got the sounds, I presume?”

“No, miss.”

Molly grabbed him by the throat.

“What pathetic piece of shit is so stupid?”

She turned on Sherlock. When he felt her gaze on him he pushed himself off the chair to his knees, whimpering in pain.

Molly threw the cages at the detective. Their flight was powered by her fury and they hit him hard. One caught him on the chest, the other struck his temple. “Your friend is an idiot! Go get the sounds.” She kicked at Sherlock, hitting him in the thigh.

Sherlock tried scrambling to his feet to obey but another kick caught him in the side of the head. It rendered him spark out.

As John raced to his side Molly grabbed his collar. “I don't think so!”

“Cages. Now!”

“But he's unconscious!”

She chewed at her lip. Another experimental kick elicited no reaction from Sherlock, proving John was right. Molly needed him functional, not incapacitated. “See to him, but do it in the large dog kennel downstairs. If he doesn't wake up by tomorrow, I'll go ahead and kill you, so fix him.”

John scooped Sherlock up and carried him like he had earlier but in reverse.

He laid him down in the kennel on one of the dog beds. He checked his pulse and his pupils for concussion, he didn't have one and his pulse was fine.

Half an hour later Molly came down the stairs a bucket full of John didn't know what. She walked to the edge of the cage before throwing it over the pair of them.

Sherlock coughed and spluttered as he came to, a large amount of icy water in his mouth.

“Easy, easy,” John soothed him. “Don't move so fast. You've been unconscious.”

His body pushed passed its limits, started shaking uncontrollably. John could hear the detective's teeth chattering with the violence of it.

“You're a fucking lunatic!” John spat at Molly.

“Out of the cage, Watson!” Molly spat back.

“Or what?”

“I'll whip his cock.”

“You won't.”

“Freak, get out here.”

Sherlock began to crawl to the gate.

John grabbed him by the legs and pulled him back, crawling over him. He'd had enough. His rage blinded him, however, and he didn't see Molly's kick coming. She caught him aside the head like she had Sherlock, but she kept kicking. This time she intended to incapacitate her victim.

Sherlock didn't know what to do and he had less energy to do it with. He cowered into the corner, kneeling in the first position Molly had put him in all those weeks ago. “Mistress, I'm sorry.”

“Prove it. Take this worthless lump and tie him up to something. The bench, the cross. I don't care what. If you don't...” Molly kick John again, letting her actions finish her statement for her.

“Yes, Mistress.”

John was dazed and confused but somehow still conscious.

“Sir, can you crawl out?”

John looked at him through the blood above his left eye.

“I'm not…” he trailed off coughing.

When John realised that Sherlock was trying to lift him, he managed to get to his feet. The two men leaned on each other as the detective guided John to the bench.

“Sir, I'm sorry. Mistress wants me to tie you to the bench. What do I do, sir?”

John rubbed at his head where a fierce headache was fast approaching.

“The cuffs,” he pointed at the shelf.

As Sherlock was placing the cuffs around John, Molly watched. Just as he was about to hook the clip from the bench to the cuffs Molly stopped him.

“Well done, Freak, you've passed my little test. Get the cages. That one can put them on you.”

John sat up on the bench, the fight temporarily gone out of him. No matter what he did, he just made matters worse. He looked up as Sherlock stumbled and started to go to him, but Molly gave him a warning look.

“I've had all I'm going to take from you, Johnny Boy.”

John lowered his head, trying to wait out the dizzy spell.

Just as it passed Sherlock reappeared. He was barely standing. In his hand were two cock cages.

John held out a shaky hand and took one of them. Putting off the inevitable as long as possible, he put one of them on himself. It didn't bother him much, not compared to what they had already been through that day.

“Give him the other one, little Locky,” Molly said with too much cheer. “And for this one, don't forget the sound.”

John ground his teeth but didn't argue. He patted the bench next to him. “Sit up here, 'Lock.”

Sherlock shook his head and instead dropped to his knees.

“Sherlock, I can't reach you down there.”

“I'll move him for you.” Molly grabbed the detective's curls and pulled until he got onto the bench. “There you go.”

John made short work of his task, knowing going slowly wouldn't make things any better at this point.

“Are you not going to thank me for helping you? You insolent shit?”

“Thank you, miss.”

“Better. Some manners.”

When John had locked Sherlock's cock away he couldn't look at him. He had heard Sherlock sobbing and he knew the look that would be on his face.

Molly bounced on her toes and clapped. “See! That wasn't so bad. You should have done that to begin with.”

“Yes, miss,” John replied to the floor. He couldn't look at their owner, either.

Sherlock wasn't sure what he was doing he fell to the floor again. “Can I serve you, Mistress?”

“Yes. Go and make me a drink. Hot chocolate. With baileys.”

John watched his feet disappear holding back the comment that Sherlock should be resting.

“Don't you have something to say, John?”

“I apologise for my behaviour, miss.”

“Hmm. I expected you to whinge that he needed coddling after his 'hard day'.”

“It wouldn't do any good, miss.”

“You're just now understanding that? You were a doctor. I thought you had a brain.”

“Yes, miss.”

“Well go and fetch your leash. You'll be tethered for the rest of the evening. But understand this, Watson, he has broken, any more steps out of line from you and I will hurt him.”

“Yes, miss,” he repeated. He walked to grasp his leash handing it to the hated woman before kneeling, his head bowed.

Molly attached the other end of his leash to a hook in the floor, then shook her head. “Nope. Not good enough.” She went and got two leather belts and a set of cuffs. “Wrists,” she demanded from behind him. She cuffed his wrists together behind his back, then wrapped the belts around him, pinning his arms to his sides and lower back.

John kept his head low.

“Now, seeing as I can't leave you in that position for very long You'll stay there for only an hour. If my other pet is well behaved I may let him come and get you.”

“Yes, miss.”

John listened as Molly disappeared up the stairs, turning the light off behind her. In the dark and silence, he made a vow to himself - he'd stop fighting Molly, stop making things worse for the pair of them. If he didn't, there might be nothing left of Sherlock for Mycroft to save.

Even he was beginning to doubt his confidence in the man. Not that he'd get here. Just that it could be too late.

***

As Molly reached the sitting room she found her drink beside her chair and her program paused. Her slave was knelt in the corner, head low, arms behind his back.

“I would say thank you, but you did nothing more than a good slave should do.” She dropped into her seat. “I really had thought to invite Sally over, you've been so rude to her over the years, but I find I want to keep you to myself. At least until after you take care of Jim.”

She watched her show for a while, content.

It was a long time before anything happened but she heard a thud. Sighing in annoyance she glanced over her shoulder. Sherlock's head had fallen forward to land against the wall and judging by the sound it had made he hadn't done it lightly.

“Oi, Holmes!”

When she got no response she moved across the room and shook his shoulder, not roughly but not gently either.

He jerked awake. “Sorry, Mistress, sorry.”

“Tired boy?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he admitted sheepishly.

Molly ran her hand through his hair several times, almost lovingly. “Go take the belts off John, but leave him tethered. You can even drag one of the dog beds over for him to sleep on.”

Sherlock started crawling towards the stairs when she removed her hand from his hair.

“Wait. You'll want the key for the handcuffs. You can undo them as well.” She tossed the key to the floor in front of the detective.

She trusted him not to do anything stupid. She doubted he could even think in a straight line anymore.

“Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.”

“When you're done you can lock yourself in the cage.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he repeated.

The stairs seemed to stretch on forever in front of him, but he staggered down them, sliding down to sit on the bottom step for a moment. It was only his orders pertaining to John that got him moving again. That and a deep seated worry for the doctor that went beyond thought. He crawled over and started unbuckling the belts around John's torso. “I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner, sir.”

“Can you please stop calling me that?” He asked quietly, a glance up the stairs.

“No, sir.” He unbuckled the last belt and then the cuffs. “Mistress says you are to sleep here, sir, but I'm allowed to get you a bed.”

He staggered over to the cage and pulled one of the dog beds out. He settled it next to the doctor and then grabbed the blankets from where John had left them that morning. “I'm sure, mistress won't be upset that you're keeping your shoulder warm, sir,” he said as he handed him the blankets.

“What have you got to do now?”

“Get in the cage, sir.”

***

Molly wandered down the steps to do one last check on her slaves. She found John asleep on the floor in the middle of the room, his collar looking uncomfortable. The cage, however, was empty. That's when she spotted the smaller cage in the corner. The one Sherlock barely fitted into.

Molly pulled on her hair with her right hand, incredibly pleased with Sherlock's behaviour. She was almost touched. Almost. It wouldn't do to go soft, not now. Still, it was a bit cold. She draped a blanket over the cage. It was her only concession to Sherlock's comfort.

“Thank you, Mistress,” he whispered, he stared at her shoes, his head throbbing from its earlier pounding and his cock feeling even worse. It literally felt like sandpaper had been wedged between the cage and his member.

“You're awake, boy, why? You said you were tired.” Molly wondered where her anger had gone but she wasn't going to make a big deal out of it.

Sherlock had to take a few deep breaths to keep himself from panicking. “No reason, Mistress.” His head hit the cage bars as he tried to look up at her and forgetting where he was.

“Is that a lie, boy?” She couldn't help but think it was rather he had avoided the answer than lied.

“I'm sorry, Mistress. I can't sleep in this cage, Mistress, that is why I'm still awake.”

“But you could sleep in the other one?”

“Mistress, please. I'm sorry. I couldn't. I'm sorry, Mistress. I...”

“Shut up!”

Sherlock fell silent his gaze drifting to where John slept.

Molly followed his gaze. “Where could you sleep, then?”

“Wherever you tell me to, Mistress.”

“Well I told you to get in the cage.”

Sherlock nodded, hitting his head again and whimpering. “Yes, Mistress,” he whispered, risking opening his mouth.

She slid the hatch back, surprised he'd managed to lock himself inside the small metal enclosing.

“Out with you.”

He crawled out, glancing at John and wondering how he could keep sleeping. Sherlock felt a pang at how exhausted the doctor must be, though he didn't have a care for his own.

“Where do you want me, Mistress?”

“Pick up that bed in there. You're coming upstairs with me.”

Sherlock's eyes widened but he didn't argue. “Yes, Mistress.”

As she shut the basement door behind them she turned to a cowering Sherlock. “That should give him a nice scare when he wakes up alone.”

The detective didn't like that, John should never be afraid, not for any reason, but he daren't say anything to Molly.

“You can put your bed on the floor by mine. You'll sleep there like a pup.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

He carried the dog bed through to her room. He'd only ever been in here once and that was to get her a spare of clothes to take to work when she wanted to stay there overnight.

She pulled out a leash from beneath the bed and wrapped it around the bed post. “Put the bed there,” she ordered. Sherlock dragged it over. “Now lay down like a good puppy.”

Sherlock complied immediately and she clipped the leash to his collar.

“You'll be there when I wake up, won't you, boy?”

“Yes, Mistress. Of course, Mistress.”

He lay there awake deep into the night simply staring off into the darkness and trying not to think. There had been a time when he had been someone, hadn't there? He didn't think it had been all that long ago. What had he done before this? Sherlock couldn't remember. John, though, John was a doctor, wasn't he? Yes, and he'd been an army captain. John was someone. Sherlock wished he could be with him.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock had, at some point in the night, wrapped himself up in the dog bed, pulling one half over him.

Molly stood over the slave watching him. Even in sleep he looked terrified. He wasn't that arsehole of a detective any more. He was her slave. Nobody. Nothing.

Molly took his leash from around the bedpost and tugged on it until Sherlock woke, groggily. “Good morning, sunshine. I'm taking you for a walk, well, just to the living room.”

Sherlock tried to blink the last of his headache away as well as the last traces of sleep. Despite lying awake into the night he had had far more sleep than he would have got months ago.

“Don't be so lazy. We have things to do today.” Molly gave his leash one harsher tug.

Sherlock shakily pushed himself to his hands and knees.

Molly tilted her head to the side. “You don't bruise very prettily,” she noted looking at him all over. “Remind me not to hit you where it will show when you're dressed.” Molly bent and adjusted his hair. “At least it won't be hard to hide the bruise at your temple.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Get up, I haven't got the time to wait for you to crawl. We've slept in as it is.”

Sherlock didn't know what she meant. She had said they weren't going to St Barts this week it was likely to just be more bad treatment for John.

He stood, but had to lean against the bedpost. He felt weak and a bit dizzy.

“Oh, you can't be serious!” Molly stood with her hands on her hips. “John always complained that you went for days without eating. Just because I didn't feed you yesterday... Come on. You can have some toast or something.”

She ignored the fact that the amount of energy consumed in the milking would have meant he should have eaten twice the amount a normal man should eat in a day let alone the puny amours he usually got.

Sherlock, again, found himself confused.

“What about John, Mistress?”

“He's downstairs,” she stated as if it was obvious. “Go and kneel by the dining table. I'll fetch him because if you do you'll end up arse over heels.”

It seemed to take forever to make it to the kitchen and find the dining table, but Sherlock managed it. He didn't want to disappoint Mistress or John. Mistress had said something about making him eat. John liked for him to eat, he remembered that. Sherlock fell to his knees and waited.

John came in being dragged in by the ear. He looked even worse than Sherlock felt. The entire side of his head was different colours.

“Feed him,” Molly ordered. “And at the same time you can prepare me breakfast along with yourself. And no more funny business from you.”

“No, miss,” John said, head low. There was no point in fighting at all. He just made things worse for Sherlock and the mere thought of it was giving him more of a headache.

Eggs and toast were about all John could manage to put together, that and coffee. He made a plate and a mug of coffee for the mad woman and carried it to her.

Molly's nose crinkled in disgust. “Is that the best you could manage?”

“Sorry, miss.” John looked down at the floor, hoping he hadn't just triggered Molly's unpredictable temper.

“Get me some beans. And the ketchup. Oh and he needs to eat something. I can't cope with him being so slow today.”

“Yes, miss.”

“But you'll have to do it, turn around,” she ordered. She cuffed Sherlock's wrists behind him, smiling at his groan of discomfort.

John, having prepared breakfast for Sherlock at Molly's requests, knelt in front of Sherlock. He brushed back the detective's hair, looking at the bruise on his temple. “Jesus. I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I never meant to make her hurt you.”

“It's not your fault, sir.” Without meaning to, Sherlock leaned forward, his forehead coming to rest against John's. His eyes fell shut. Despite how much he hurt, it felt like a perfect moment.

Molly cleared her throat. “Having a moment, are we?”

John sat up straight, managing to catch the sleepy detective and sit him upright as well.

He jerked alert again to face a spoon full of cereal in front of him.

Sherlock opened his mouth without protest and ate what was put in it. It didn't matter what it was, really, not coming from John at Molly's order. It could have been dog food and he would have eaten it just the same.

Molly pulled up a chair to watch the proceedings. Her right leg was crossed over her left and she bounced her right foot as she sipped her coffee.

John had to interrupt Sherlock's breakfast to present Molly with the beans but at the quickest opportunity he knelt back in front of him.

“How you feeling?” The doctor asked. “Not ill? Sick at all?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.”

It was slow going, feeding Sherlock whose eyes kept falling shut, but it was easy. Too easy. He should have been grumbling complaints at the very least.

John cupped his cheek. “You're still tired, I know.”

“'M not tired, sir. Head hurts. Light hurts.”

John frowned. He dumped the bowl and then peered into his eyes. “You've got concussion. You shouldn't have slept last night at all.” He looked up to Molly, “Miss, I woke up alone, did anything… extra happen while I was asleep?”

“I was in the cage, sir, my cage,” Sherlock answered.

John glanced at Molly again. “Miss?”

She stood up, a frown on her face. “He didn't sleep in his cage. He slept on one of the dog beds on the floor in my bedroom.”

John swore internally. “I'm a bloody idiot. I'm supposed to be a doctor! If you don't want long-term damage to his brain, you'll let him rest for the next few days.”

“You're not an idiot, sir,” Sherlock said quietly.

“And as for resting, that's not going to happen. He will be a puppet by Friday.”

“He's a puppet now!” John hated himself for saying it but Sherlock didn't even seem to be listening anyway.

“Watch your tone. Now finish giving him his breakfast. His milking this afternoon should wake him up.”

Molly walked from the room, disappearing down the hall. Maybe she was getting dressed for the day, John didn't care so long as they had a bit of privacy. Sherlock really shouldn't eat, he shouldn't have eaten anything at all. The doctor hid the rest of the food the only way he could, he ate it.

“Sherlock, there's no way I can get you out of this afternoon, I'm sorry I really am.”

“Doesn't matter, sir.”

“Yes, it matters. Of course it matters!”

Sherlock lowered his head at John's tone and the doctor's eyes travelled to the cuffs. He couldn't even get him out of them.

At Molly's return, John looked up at her, trying to keep his face neutral. “He reeks. Both of us do, miss. I know you can't find it pleasant. May I have permission to bathe us, miss?”

She sniffed, wrinkling her nose at the stench. “Yes, but not in my bathtub. Use the bath in the basement.” Molly smiled, getting an idea. “And wash him on the inside as well. Use one of the enema kits on the table with the toys.”

“Miss, I don't know if-”

She held her finger up. “Not a word, Watson. Go. Now.”

John tugged on the younger slave's collar trying to get him to his feet.

“Can I uncuff him please, miss?”

Molly laughed. “Silly boy, of course not. You'll just have to do the best you can.”

The doctor ended up carrying Sherlock down to the basement loo. It caused his shoulder, already aching from the night before, to protest, but he ignored it as he set his friend gently on the floor.

“You have one hour!” Molly yelled down at them.

Sighing, John reached over to run the bath then turned to cup Sherlock's cheek. His fellow slave had moved from being sat on his bum to sit on his knees.

“Sherlock?”

The detective glanced up towards the wall over the bathtub. “Mistress may be watching, sir.”

John sighed. Camera. Right. “Alright. I'll go get the bloody enema kit.” By the time he returned with it, Sherlock had managed to lay on his side in the proper position for its administration.

“Sorry,” John apologised as he made use of the kit. He worked as quickly and efficiently as he could, wanting to get the unpleasantness over with. After a couple of minutes he helped Sherlock onto the toilet, apologising the whole time. “Sorry. I'm sorry.”

Sherlock just stared at the space between his feet.

“You ready for a bath now?”

“Yes, sir,” he didn't really want one but John had asked for one and Mistress had said yes so he had to.

The doctor turned on the taps and adjusted the temperature of the water. He gave Sherlock a preliminary cleaning, then helped him into the bath, easing him down to sit on the bottom. Not knowing how much time he had left, John climbed into the tub behind Sherlock. He could clean them both at the same time.

He paused when he reached the younger man's cuffed wrists. They were red from where the metal was tightly restraining but Sherlock wasn't fighting them, his hands were just held slackly.

The doctor sighed again. “Close your eyes, 'Lock, I'm going to do your hair.”

John cupped water in his hand and poured it over Sherlock's dirty, sweaty curls repeatedly until they were thoroughly drenched. There wasn't any shampoo to be had, but there was a bar of soap. It would have to do. John used it to work up a weak lather and cleaned the detective's hair as best he could. Cupping more water in his hand and rinsing it. If water fell in his eyes Sherlock didn't react.

John sighed again. Sherlock was like an empty shell. This wasn't the way! He turned to the taps, turning on the hot and filling the tub up as much as he could. They could soak for a while.

He shifted Sherlock onto his side and cradled his head against his upper chest. That way the hot water could soothe Sherlock's muscles without him having to lay on his cuffed arms. It was a poor solution, but it was the only one he had.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John said to the top of his head, “I miss you.”

The detective didn't respond.

He had to keep jostling him to keep him awake as his eyes continued to flutter shut.

“Sherlock, stay awake for me.”

He suddenly sunk down, sliding from John's grip he momentarily disappeared under the water, eyes shut and unconscious.

John had to take a quick deep breath to not hyperventilate and then he stood, Sherlock in his arms.

“Molly!”

The hated woman appeared quickly, having glanced at the feed from the camera in the loo at John's panicked yell and seen the situation.

“You may have killed him!” John yelled. “We need an ambulance, now!”

She looked down at him and made a point of making the decision for herself before leaving to phone an ambulance.

Sherlock began vibrating, shaking slowly at first before thrashing around uncontrollably.

Molly reappeared, finding her youngest slave's head in the older one's lap.

The fit was drawing to a close but he wasn't coming around.

“Are they coming?” John asked as he stroked Sherlock's face. “How long until they get here?”

Molly shrugged. She stood there, one arm crossed across her chest. She was biting the nails on her other hand. “How should I know?! Five minutes. Fifteen. He is breathing, isn't he?”

John glared up at her. “Just. Now get these fucking cuffs off him and the cage.”

“You're right. Don't want anyone to see it, do we?”

It wasn't technically illegal but it wasn't that much of a leap to go from this treatment to hospitalising her slave deliberately.

Molly removed both cage and cuffs, leaving them laying on the floor. “You should get him upstairs, too.”

“I'm not moving him,” John countered, daring her by his inaction to do anything further to either of them.

When the doorbell rang Molly stood and ran up the stairs. It wasn't the paramedics however, but Detective Inspector Dimmock.

“Miss Hooper. I've come to check on Sherlock.”

“Sherlock. Why?” Molly stretched up on her toes, looking around him. “What do you care? I didn't think you even liked him.”

Paul shrugged. “Yeah, well. That last case. He was right, of course. I thought he would want to know and you haven't brought him around for me to tell, so...”

“Well he hasn't been on his best behaviour. He's been suitably punished but his actions on the last case were too bad for me to let slide, you understand?”

“No. Actually, I don't. He was perfect. Even respectful to the mourning parents. It was Donovan who was out of order even given his status.” The sound of sirens made the DI turn, “what the…”

The paramedics rushed over. “Miss Hooper?”

She nodded. “He's downstairs.”

She tried to hold the officer out and let the other two through but he wasn't having it. He pushed his way in.

The moment he saw Sherlock, head cradled in John's arms, he went pale. He berated himself for not checking on the two men sooner. “John?” he asked, by way of inquiry.

The doctor's head jerked up and around as he met the DI's eyes. “He's alive,” John said, voice tight with worry. “No thanks to...” He bit off what he had been going to say when he noticed Molly glaring at him.

“Step back,” one of the paramedics ordered.

“No,” John argued. “I'm a doctor.”

“You were a doctor. You're a slave, are you not?”

John's gaze flickered to Molly and he sighed, he couldn't deny it; he was stood naked, after all, but for once he wasn't embarrassed by it. “Yes, sir.”

“Then stand back.”

Dimmock found himself standing between John and Molly rather protectively. He looked her up and down. “Whatever... accident... happened, it looks like John was hurt pretty badly too. I can only assume you want me to take him to hospital as well to get checked out.”

“Of course I do.” She fidgeted slightly where she stood. “John, put on some clothes. You go with the Inspector. I'll go with Sherlock.” The look she gave John was a warning one. She clearly meant for him to keep his mouth shut.

“Yes, miss,” he whispered with a worried glance at Sherlock. At least with the paramedics in the van with the pair of them Molly couldn't do anything to him. John used that as comfort as he followed Dimmock out to the car. He climbed into the back on instinct.

“John, you can sit up front if you like?”

“I'm fine, sir,” he said quietly. “But thank you.”

Dimmock glanced in the rear-view to check on the slave. Bruising was prominent on most of his face and a clear and deep cut ran down the side of his eye.

They didn't wait long until the door to Molly's apartment opened again. Sherlock was brought out on a trolley and John only moved enough to see him from the window.

Paul followed on after the ambulance trying to engage John in a conversation. “You can tell me what happened, John, the evidence is enough to bring an inquiry.”

“Nothing happened, sir.”

“Sherlock is unconscious and you look like you've been through the blender.”

“Merely being punished for bad behaviour, sir.”

Dimmock raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “John...”

“Detective Inspector, sir. Slaves can't provide testimony. No one's seen anything like abuse happen to either of us.”

“I know, but…” he trailed off. John was staring at the floor.

Even as they pulled into the hospital car park, Dimmock found his gaze flicking back on John. The doctor had his head down, not daring to look around. A few days ago Sherlock had seemed the one that was lost… now one slave was unconscious, the other was barely keeping it together and his demeanour, although not rude before, was highly irregular now.

The DI considered. Successful inquiries had been conducted under similar circumstances before and cases of abuse had been proven. If a sympathetic doctor could be found to push for it, it would help immensely.

That proved unlikely as John followed behind the DI and they entered Sherlock's room. The detective had been cuffed to the bed, despite his current state of still being unconscious.

John was grabbed by a security guard and pushed into a chair, his hands were pulled over the back and cuffed.

“Watch his shoulder,” Molly said sweetly, trying to fake 'looking out' for her slave.

Dimmock couldn't meet John's eyes. He couldn't bear to see the 'I told you so' that he knew he would see there. Still, he wasn't going to give up completely, not yet, not until he saw and spoke to the doctor in charge of this mess.

“Molly,” one of the nurses began. “What would you like done with him?”

“Take him to a nearby room, check him over. How's that one?” She nodded at the prone detective.

“He's unconscious but he should wake up,” they were watching as a doctor lifted the sheet above his waist to examine him.

Dimmock was torn. He wanted to stay and see how Sherlock was, talk to his physician, but he thought it might be more beneficial to go with John so he followed when the security guard took John to another room.

The doctor examining Sherlock frowned at what he saw on the unconscious body before him. “He's a slave. Why? What did he do?”

“He killed a man,” Molly said flatly. “Snapped his neck.”

The man looked up at her, disbelieving. “And you bought him?”

She nodded. “Had an old score to settle.”

“Judging by his genitalia I would say he was paying a high price?”

“If you're suggesting anything untoward…”

“Not at all, Miss Hooper. I've always thought the law should be scraped for murderers. Do what you like with them, I say.”

Molly assumed if they weren't alone in the room the doctor would not have said such a thing.

“I need him for something important on Friday. How long will he be here?”

“That man with you, is he your husband?”

“No. He's a Detective Inspector from the Yard. I work with him sometimes,” Molly hastened to explain. “So does he,” she added, pointing to Sherlock.

The physician nodded. “We'll need to keep him a while, then. Avert suspicion of negligence on the NHS's, but you'll have him back by tomorrow at the latest. He just needs some fluids. Maybe a course of antibiotics. It's all a killer like him deserves.”

“Neither of us will get in trouble with that course of action?”

“Not at all. What about him next door?”

“He's mine too.”

“Well I'll have him checked over. What was his crime? Murder?”

“Bank robbery.”

“Was he armed?” The doctor asked, filling in the clipboard at the side of Sherlock's bed.

“Yes,” Molly said with mock sadness. “He's an army veteran. Used his old service weapon. He has fallen on hard times. He doesn't show any remorse, though, so I don't feel too sorry for him. He'd do it again in a heartbeat.”

“A mild course of antibiotics then.”

He walked from the room and through to John. He was laid back on the bed, the security guard stood beside him even as he was resting on his still cuffed wrists.

John didn't ask questions or speak when Molly came in. The attending physician didn't bother to speak to the blond except to ask basic questions as he examined him. When he finished, he turned to Molly. “You can take this one home now, if you like. I'll write up the prescription we discussed earlier. It should take care of him.”

Dimmock, who had been standing in a corner shook his head in disgust. There was clearly no help forthcoming from this sector.

“Yes, I'll take him. John, get up. Leave the cuffs.”

She walked back through to the other room, John back on his leash.

Sherlock had awoken he was clearly groggy and in no state to do anything but stare at the ceiling.

“Miss, can I say goodbye to him?” John asked quietly.

Dimmock had followed them, so Molly told her slave, “Of course, but make it quick. He needs his rest.” She removed the cuffs but not until making her point that they wouldn't stay off for long.

“Thank you, miss.” John went over to stand by the side of Sherlock's bed. He didn't care who was watching. “'Lock. There's something I should have told you long ago.” He reached out and rested a hand on the prone man's shoulder. “Maybe it will help... I love you.”

Sherlock's gaze flickered to the doctor, softening slightly but then Molly appeared, pulling John's arms back behind him, cuffing him once again.

“When will we see him again, miss?”

“Tomorrow, then we can take him home.”

***

Molly waited until they were in the car before beginning her rant. “What the hell did you say to the Inspector?!”

“Nothing, miss. Truly. I know better.” John prayed she'd believe the truth. It was all he had to offer her.

She slammed her hands against the steering wheel. “I saw the look on his face. He was suspicious. You had to have said something.”

John couldn't believe her. Didn't she have eyes? Couldn't she see what she had done to them, to Sherlock?

He chose not to argue. “It doesn't matter if he's suspicious, miss, there's no proof, no evidence.” He couldn't believe he was trying to help calm her, after everything… maybe it really was too late for them to be saved.

Molly slammed the car into gear. “I don't want you talking to Dimmock. Don't talk to anyone at the Yard without my permission. Except Sally. You can talk to her.”

John sighed, how was he supposed to do that when he and Sherlock worked with them on a day to day basis? Just mime the questions that needed answers? He didn't say any of this though, that would be detrimental to his health, “yes, miss.”

Molly started talking to herself. “Everything has to be in place by Friday. Tomorrow's Thursday. I'll have enough time.”

“Miss?” John asked, not hearing her clearly.

“He better be fit tomorrow or I'm discharging him.”

“Miss, you can't-”

“I bloody well can. I'll do what I want and you are going to shut up.”

John bit his tongue to keep quiet. Sherlock wouldn't be fit, he knew it down to his bones, and it wouldn't matter one bit. He closed his eyes and found himself praying for help to come before it was too late.

***

“I want him in pants, nothing else.”

Molly was stood at the desk of the hospital ward Sherlock was in, she'd forced John to his knees behind her, whilst she held his leash as taut as she could.

His hands were behind his head and despite the threats he couldn't help but nervously run his hands through his hair… it had gotten far too long for his tastes.

The nurse raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. The patient, Holmes, was a slave, after all, and for the best of reasons. What did she care about his treatment? “Yes, Miss Hooper. I'll see to it.”

Just as Molly was about to turn and threaten John once again someone cleared their throat from behind them.

“Inspector, how can I help?”

“I just wanted to check on Sherlock. He really didn't seem well yesterday.”

“Well, he's fine, thank you for your concern but he's coming home with us.”

“Really?” Dimmock could tell something was up, for a start, John was knelt, he was never made to kneel in public and secondly as soon as Sherlock's situation was mentioned he tensed up even more so than he already was.

“Yes!” Molly jerked on John's leash. “John, go with the nurse and get Sherlock.”

The doctor hesitated, unsure, but finally decided to stand. His body screamed at him, his aching muscles and bruises impossible to ignore. “Yes, miss.”

He trailed behind the nurse, head low. There had been a day when the nurse would have walked behind him. It wasn't his normal thoughts but it wasn't like his ego was over the top, he didn't even have one anymore.

Inside Sherlock's room, he had gone from being cuffed with one wrist, to both wrists and ankles chained to the bed. He was awake, staring at the ceiling, unseeing.

“Excuse me, sir,” John asked as the doctor with the key came in. “But what did he do to…” he trailed off.

“Tried to escape in the night, not that it's any of your business, slave.”

Sherlock, trying to escape? That was bollocks, Sherlock didn't even move without an order these days.

John's momentary anger fled at the thought. Once, Sherlock would have tried to pull a runner when confined to hospital. Not now.

The detective didn't offer to move even when he had been released. Neither the physician nor the nurse could get him to climb out of bed.

“Sherlock,” John said sadly, “I'm sorry, but you have to get up, now. Miss Hooper is waiting.”

At the sound of John's voice, the younger slave climbed shakily out of bed and knelt on the floor, waiting to be cuffed.

John's heartstrings tugged as the doctor pulled his hands around behind him, cuffing him immediately. He also noted that just being in his pants was as much dignity as he had had since they'd left him the day before.

“Can you walk?” John asked, not entirely certain that Sherlock could manage it.

The indifferent nurse snorted. “Of course he can. Besides, why would we waste a wheelchair on the likes of him.”

Walking over to Sherlock's side, John helped him to his feet. “Easy now.” He tucked his arm around him. “Lean on me if you need to.”

Sherlock didn't respond, not even to lean on John.

When Molly appeared at the door, he dropped straight away, his knees thudding into the floor.

“Ah, he's already cuffed, isn't that great?”

She smacked John on the back of his head when he didn't answer. “Yes, miss.” He couldn't help but wince as he waited for the grumbled complaint from Sherlock he knew wouldn't come anymore.

“Well, get him up. It's time to take the poor thing home,” Molly said sweetly.

John didn't know why she bothered. No one else in the room seemed to care how they were treated by her. Why should she pretend? “Yes, miss,” he said, tiredly.

He tried to help but the nearby doctor pushed him out of the way. He snapped one of the hospital leashes on to his collar and gave it a sharp yank.

Sherlock stumbled to his feet because if he didn't he would have ended up face planting the floor.

John had to try so hard to hold in his attitude. If she actually cared at all about Sherlock she wouldn't make him go outside barefooted and in nothing but his pants in the middle of winter. He laughed silently, bitterly. If she wasn't insane, none of this would be happening.

Dimmock was waiting out in the hall, clearly unhappy.

Molly looked at him. “See? He's fine, aren't you, Sherlock?”

He wobbled and kept his gaze on the floor. “Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.”

She took the leash from the doctor and marched off at a swift pace, knowing the detective would struggle to keep up.

Dimmock placed his hand on John's arm, trying to get his attention.

“I need you to call me if anything else happens.”

John stared at the floor, he wasn't allowed to answer. He didn't know what Molly would do if he did.

“John!”

He winced, wanting to reply but knowing it wasn't worth it.

“Watson, stop being rude and speak to him,” Molly yelled, spotting the altercation.

He flinched at the sound of Molly's voice and closed his eyes in confusion; that order was just out of spite.

“There's nothing going on, sir, so there's no need to call.” Not like he had anything to call with anyway. His and Sherlock's mobile was at the Yard.

Paul wished he knew how to get in touch with Greg Lestrade. He would know what to do and if he didn't, that boyfriend of his, Sherlock's brother, certainly would. He waited until the trio had disappeared into a lift, then he turned and kicked the wall in frustration.

Outside Molly handed Sherlock's leash to the blond.

“Get him in the back, he can kneel on the floor.”

“Yes, miss.”

John helped him into the car, cupping his cheek as soothingly as he could. He started to climb in beside him.

“No. You should know better than that, Watson. You sit up front with me.”

With a sigh of frustration, the doctor closed the back door and went around to climb into the front passenger seat. Suddenly, he felt weary. John pressed his forehead against the cool glass in the window and closed his eyes.

It wasn't John who was sick on the way home though, but Sherlock.

“Mistress-”

“Shut it, boy!” Molly barked not even sparing him a glance in the mirror.

As Molly wasn't planning on stopping Sherlock didn't know what to do, he just vomited, on the floor beside him, gagging as he did so.

Molly slammed on her brakes, pulling to the kerb. “You did that on purpose!”

Tears were falling from the detective's eyes. They were tears of pain. Everything hurt so much. That was what had caused him to get nauseous in the first place. “Mistress, I'm sorry.” He looked around the car for something with which to clean up the mess but realised he wouldn't be able to anyway, his hands were cuffed. As the car jerked to a complete stop, Sherlock's head slammed forward into the seat back in front of him.

John didn't care what Molly said or did, he scrambled from the vehicle and opened the back door to see to the younger man.

“Are you going to be sick again?” John asked, worry tingeing his voice.

“I didn't mean to, sir. Please tell Mistress I didn't mean to.”

The doctor wiped the corners of Sherlock's mouth, cleaning them. “She knows,” he said, hoping against hope that he was right. “Don't you, miss?”

She looked over her shoulder, “do I look like I care if you meant to? Look at the state of my car, I should have kept you in the boot where you belong.”

“Yes, Mistress. I'm sorry, Mistress, I'm really sorry.”

“I don't want to hear it.” She couldn't keep punishing him, he was weak and clearly in a lot of pain, the hospital wouldn't have put much morphine in the drip. She needed him ready for tomorrow. “Get him onto the seat and open the window, if he's going to be sick again make sure he does it out of the car, you can both clean it up when we get back.”

That meant John could sit in the back with him. “Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.”

He sat next to Sherlock, holding his hand and trying to offer silent comfort. After a bit, the detective began to shiver and John wrapped his arms around him, pulling him in close to keep him as warm as possible. Christ, if Sherlock caught pneumonia or the flu... John shuddered. It didn't bear thinking about. Despite what Molly might say, he shrugged out of his jacket and tried to get Sherlock into it.

“No, sir, I can't.”

“Miss, he's trembling. If he catches pneumonia he'll be no use to you tomorrow can he please wear my jacket?”

Sherlock flinched at Molly's resulting growl.

“Fine, let him use it, but only because I need him. Just drape it over him, though. Leave the cuffs on.”

It was a partial victory. By this point, John would take any of them he could get. The doctor did his best to wrap his jacket around Sherlock and held him close.

When the car pulled up to the kerb outside Molly's she climbed from the vehicle, marched around the car, snatched Sherlock's leash tightly and hauled him to where the sick splattered the floor and back seat. She shoved him to his knees on the concrete, ignoring his slight whimper. Then she uncuffed him.

“Clear that mess up!”

Sherlock fumbled around, trying to use John's jacket as a towel.

“Wait.” The doctor took his jacket from him and held it up. “Put this on.” As he helped the younger man put on the jacket, he looked back over his shoulder. “Miss, may I fetch the cleaning supplies?”

John hated how Sherlock would rather use clothes to clear up a mess that wasn't really his fault than use it to keep him warm.

“You have two minutes, or he's licking it up.”

“Yes, miss, thank you, miss.”

John had never ran so fast in his entire life. He was in and out of the apartment within a minute, he knelt beside Sherlock to help but Molly shoved her hand into his hair, tugging his head back violently.

“I don't care what I said earlier, he is clearing up his own mess on his own.”

For one horrible moment, John thought she meant Sherlock would have to lick it up. Apparently, so did the detective. John couldn't believe what had been done to his best friend as Sherlock tried to bend over, to do just that, but Molly still gripped him by the curls. She grabbed a towel from John and shoved it into Sherlock's hands. “Get to work.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” he whispered, scrubbing at the mess of the seat and carpet.

It was no more than seven minutes when Sherlock passed out, into what had previously been a much larger pile of mess.

John's hair was still in Molly's grip and he struggled to pull free.

“Miss, please. Let me get him inside. I can clean this and him up.” John took a calculated risk. “I know you want him ready for tomorrow, miss. He needs rest for that.”

Molly sighed. “I thought he was meant to be strong. Resilient. Not eating for a few days used to be fine, not eating for one day here and he annoys me enough to punish him and then he's weak enough to get concussion to make him a blubbering mess. Get him inside, the sight of him is making me sick.”

“I'm sorry, Mistress,” Sherlock said as he let himself be drawn to his feet.

“Shh, hush,” John shushed him. “It's ok. You're okay.” When the detective stumbled, John scooped him up in his arms and carried him inside. The doctor's shoulder ached, but he ignored it.

When John lowered him onto the chair he tried to get off, to the floor. “I don't belong on here, sir.”

John could sense the imminent panic.

“Shh,” he hated himself for what he was about to say. “You do as I tell you, don't you?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock said, eyes wide as if he had made the older man doubt his loyalty.

“Then I'm telling you to stay on this sofa and only move if either me or Mistress comes and gets you, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Watson!” Came a yell. “I believe you are supposed to be cleaning my car. Do the whole thing while you're out there. I'll keep an eye on that.” She indicated Sherlock with a tilt of her head.

The younger man pulled his knees up to his chest. The old, familiar pose made John's heart ache. It made the younger man look so small.

“I'll be back as quickly as I can, babe,” John sought to reassure him as he stepped back and headed from the room.

As he passed Molly at the door she snagged her hand out and gripped his ear.

“You can stop bloody coddling him like he's 3 years old just because he acts like it doesn't make it so.”

“I'm not... Yes, miss.” He had to keep his priorities straight. First and foremost, he couldn't antagonise Molly. She let him go, then shoved him towards the door.

John rushed out to the car grabbing the supplies Sherlock had dropped. Cleaning the whole car would take him forever, he wondered if Molly would let him take it to the fuel station up the road, they had a car wash, but he decided against it and instead filled a bucket up from the hose. He needed to be as fast as possible, he didn't know what Molly would do to harm the younger slave's health further if he left them alone too long.

***

Sherlock sat, shivering on the sofa, even with John's jacket on, he was cold. Freezing, even.

“Oh, be quiet,” Molly snapped at her slave's whimper and teeth chattering. She needed to think and it was nearly impossible to do with Sherlock sitting there, looking and sounding pathetic.

“Go downstairs,” she ordered. “Get in the big cage, lay down on one of the beds and go to sleep, if you're good I'll even turn the heating on. When Watson gets back he can feed you.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered, he went to remove the jacket but she stopped him with a glare.

“Leave it!”

“Thank you, Mistress,” he whispered again, stumbling off as fast as he could down the stairs.

When John came back inside and didn't see Sherlock on the sofa, he started to panic. “Miss?!”

“He's down in his cage. I found him distracting.” She looked up at John. “Go fix him.”

“I…”

“Take whatever you need from the kitchen, I don't want to hear or see either of you until tomorrow. You can be back in the cage for the evening.”

“Yes, miss.”

3 months ago John would have thought those words were harsh but today he saw it as leeway and a lot of it. Sleeping in a cage should be something he hated, instead he loved it, he was with Sherlock - could look after him. Also, Molly always had a lot of food in the kitchen as well as painkillers. He'd grab as many different ones as he could fit in his pockets without rousing too much suspicion and get as many into Sherlock as he could.

When he made it to the basement without further interaction with Molly, he breathed a sigh of relief. “'Lock, I'm here. I've got some meds for you.”

Sherlock didn't look up from where he was curled in a tight ball on the dog bed, he hadn't been ordered to.

Crawling into the cage, John hunched down by his side. “You're going to have to help me here. Come on, look at me.”

That was an order. Sherlock's eyes snapped open to look at John, brilliant John who was always there when he didn't need to be.

The doctor moved back momentarily so he could grab the tray from the top of the cage and bring it inside. He closed it behind him, it may have been a stupid thing to do but it made it cosier… more at home. The blankets were even in the corner, he had no idea how they'd managed to swing that. John held a glass of milk to his lips, after checking the concussion had practically cleared. He placed a few tablets on his tongue.

“Swallow them, 'Lock, they'll make you feel better I promise.”

Sherlock obeyed, gulping at the milk thirstily.

“It's a good job I brought a big jug of it down here, isn't it?” He asked softly, once Sherlock had drained the glass.

John poured a bit more to see if he wanted it but Sherlock didn't respond. Sighing, he threw some of the tablets into his own mouth and drank quickly.

The younger man wished John would hold him, but he daren't ask for it. He didn't deserve it anyway. John was too good for him.

The doctor wrapped his arms around Sherlock without him even need it to ask. “I'm tired, 'Lock, and I know you still feel like hell. Lay down and get some rest.”

Sherlock couldn't help himself, his arms reached around the older man, holding him tight.

“If you want to eat, just say, or we can go straight to sleep?”

When Sherlock didn't respond John sighed.

“Answer me, 'Lock.”

“Sleep, sir. Please, sir.”

John extricated his left arm and stroked Sherlock's hair. “You sleep, babe. I'll take care of you.”

The detective wondered why John kept calling him that, babe. There was something he had meant to remember, something John had said at the hospital. Try as he might, he couldn't remember it.


	7. Chapter 7

Molly entered the basement with a sense of anticipation. It was Friday. It was the day her brother, Jim, would be out of her life forever. “Good morning, boys!” she called out in a bright tone. “It's D-Day!”

John groaned at both the bright light and her chipper tone. His head still throbbed and he was slow to wake. Sherlock, on the other hand, was already struggling to kneel in the cage.

“Look at him, eager.”

“Morning, Mistress,” Sherlock whispered.

John tried to get him back on his side, off his extremely bruised knees but he wouldn't budge.

“I think you should be kneeling too, Watson. I've had enough of your whining, bratty behaviour, you'll be as good as him today or you'll both suffer the consequences.”

“Yes, miss.”

Molly opened the cage. “Out!” Sherlock crawled out of it and John started to follow. “No, not you.” She shoved the doctor in the face, making him fall back, then she closed the cage.

Sherlock, who had his eyes locked on the floor, felt her grab him by the curls and bend his head back. He still tried to look at anywhere that wasn't her face.

“Who owns you?”

“You, Mistress.”

“What about him?”

“He's more than I am, Mistress. But you own me, Mistress.”

“You're a clever boy, learning all your lines.”

She tightened her grip for no apparent reason.

“How's that feeling today?” She used her free hand to grasp his caged cock through his pants.

“However you want it to be, Mistress.”

“You really are broken, aren't you? Nothing more than a toy. A puppet.”

Sherlock didn't answer. He had learnt what sort of questions were rhetorical.

“The doctors told me they removed the sound, Watson, so that they didn't have to do any extra work when he needed to pee. When he's been to the loo, you'll put it back.”

John ground his teeth, then answered with, “Yes, miss.” Maybe she would mess up today and give him a gun. If she did, he wouldn't hold back, not for an instant.

Outside the cage, Sherlock slumped to his hands and knees when he was let go and crawled towards the loo.

Sherlock was taking so long in the loo, Molly opened the cage and dragged John out by his too long hair.

“Find out what the little shit is doing I can't be bothered.”

“Yes, miss,” he also crawled to the loo.

Sherlock was knelt beside the loo looking incredibly confused and panicky.

“I'm sorry, sir, I- I can't reach, sir.”

John sighed softly. “You can get off your knees, 'Lock.”

Sherlock sat back on his heels.

“No, I mean, you can stand.” John put a hand under the detective's arm and helped him up. “Ok?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

John couldn't bare to leave him so he stood back a little. He tried to give the younger man as much dignity as he could but when he whimpered he moved forward and wrapped his arm around him.

“I know you're sore, 'Lock, I'm so sorry I can't make this any easier.”

“Oi!” Molly yelled. “Both of you get your lazy arses out here.”

“We're coming, miss,” John called, then he lowered his voice. “Don't think about it, just do it.”

Sherlock finally managed to do what he needed to, thankfully and both men breathed a sigh of relief. It was short lived, however, as Molly appeared in the bathroom door.

Sherlock cowered and dropped to his knees. A split second later John copied him.

Molly's eyes widened slightly. “Small reward for you. I was going to cane the pair of you for taking so long but this sudden show of respect has let you off, now get out here.”

It was impossible for John to trust those words, but he pretended that he did. Again, he copied Sherlock who had started crawling after their owner. It was galling, but he was desperate for her to believe he was cowed.

He was pleasantly surprised when she ordered Sherlock up onto the bench, not because she was about to cane him but to make sure John put the sound in. What had the world come to that the idea of that in itself was pleasant?

As John went to work with the sound, Molly went upstairs. She came down with clothes for both of them, nice clothes, normal clothes.

“John, you'll need to both look your best today. It wouldn't do to draw eyes to us before Sherlock gets the chance to kill Jim for me.” Molly lay everything across the nearby table.

John barely managed not to snort - as if their injuries wouldn't draw attention.

“I might even give him his coat back. How does that sound?”

Sherlock was chewing on his bottom lip, whimpering slightly as John did his best to ease the sound into his urethra.

“Thank you, Mistress,” he said quietly.

“But you can stick a nice plug in his hole, a nice big black one,” Molly grinned manically. “And if you do it without complaint you can both have breakfast. You're better to me today nice and strong.”

John clenched his jaw and kept working, finally getting the sound in place. He looked up to see the detective biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. The doctor looked over his shoulder, Molly had moved across the room and wasn't watching. “Don't bite your lip, babe.”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

John sighed. He was like a robot. No free will. Literally a shell.

“Roll over for me,” he whispered softly.

“Watson!”

John flinched and turned to see what the mad woman wanted. She threw the plug at him. He caught it with ease but gaped at the size of it for a moment. “Thank you, miss,” he ground out.

He waited, hoping she would toss him lube. When she didn't he sighed and looked down at Sherlock. Seeing lube on the floor by the bench, John let out a sigh of relief. He used it to prepare the plug and Sherlock, acting as if Molly had intended him to use it all along. Once he finally had it seated he stepped back and held his hands out for the younger man.

Sherlock accepted the offer but as soon as two feet were on the ground he dropped to his knees.

“Excuse me, miss?” John called over, joining the detective on the floor. When she turned, he made sure his head was ducked. “I'm done, miss.”

“Excellent.” Molly looked at them. “His hair's all...” She made a gesture at how it was tangled in a mess. “Wash it and make it look like it used to.”

“Miss? All there is to use down here is soap. It'll make his hair all fuzzy.” He hated the way they were talking like Sherlock as if he wasn't here. John reflected, he wasn't really. Not the real Sherlock, the proper Sherlock, he wouldn't let this happen to himself.

“Are you answering back?”

Sherlock flinched so John tried to make sure he copied.

“No, miss. I just-”

“Shut it, Watson. You are clearly blind. There is dog shampoo on the shelf in the bathroom. That's all a mutt needs.”

“Oh. Thank you, miss,” John didn't want to push her further. “Come on, 'Lock.”

Molly passed the time it took the two men to shower by tacking diagrams to the wall. They were the plans to Jim's house and land. Just for fun, she drew a little skull and crossbones in the centre of his house.

She had been planning all this in her head for weeks, since even before she bought the two slaves. This was the first time that either of them were going to see it.

She turned when she heard the two men exit the loo. “How do you like my work? You'll find everything you need to know about my brother's property right here.”

“It looks... detailed, miss,” John offered, hoping it would be enough. “Don't you think so, Sherlock?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, Mistress.”

Molly clapped in delight. “Good. Now get dressed quickly. Places to go. People to kill.”

“Yes, miss.”

John helped Sherlock struggle into some clothes and then he dropped to his knees once again.

“Up!” Molly barked. “Don't go getting your trousers all mucky!”

“Sorry, Mistress.”

Sherlock stood instead and placed his hands behind his head.

John tried to follow on as quickly as he had gotten Sherlock dressed but fatigue was beginning to settle in already and his shoulder was causing him nothing but gip. He doubted the leniency he had been given for it last week would be anything but a distant memory to the woman now.

Molly shoved his and Sherlock's jackets in his arms. He put his own on first and then helped Sherlock with his. Even with his Belstaff back on he didn't look like Sherlock, his hair was still out of sorts, he was incredibly pale and he even bent the collar of his coat down instead of leaving it up the way it always was. The way it used to be. The way it should be.

Molly seemed oblivious to how different Sherlock looked. “Ok, Holmes, come memorise everything I've prepared for you and I'll tell you my plan. Watson, run along and fetch some tea and toast for the two of you. You can even have jam.”

The doctor's eyes widened slightly. John hoped to see a flicker of something in Sherlock but he got nothing. The detective was staring at the map on the wall.

John returned with a tray. “I've brought you a coffee, miss,” it wouldn't do to act as though he was neglecting her despite hating her guts.

Molly took the proffered cup and sipped at it absently. “I know you're normally the muscle, John, but you'll forgive me that I don't trust you with a gun.”

The doctor swore silently, his hopes crushed. Well, they had been slim hopes, anyway. “Yes, miss. I understand.”

“I suppose you'd better memorise this lot as well. We'll go in around the back. My brother does like to use that exit for his meetings, we'll cut him off in the sitting room before he gets there.”

45 minutes later, John had eaten and coaxed a few bites into Sherlock as Molly talked. She had been so involved in the planning that she hadn't even noticed him feeding the detective.

Sherlock had eaten so mechanically he hadn't noticed the different tablets John had put in the pieces of toast. He'd managed to snag some more when he was preparing breakfast and taken some on his own but he couldn't leave Sherlock to do without.

Molly smiled at the wall, pleased with their plans. She had already put the gun Sherlock would use in the car along with the one she would be holding on John.

“Go and get in the car. Watson, you can sit on the back seat with him. Make sure he doesn't puke all over my car again.”

“Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.”

***

The young man, early 20s, quailed under Mycroft's gaze. “Sir, please. Let me explain.”

The government official slammed his hand on the desktop and leaned towards the other man. “You! You withheld vital information from me regarding my brother. I don't care why you did it, your personal peccadillos are no affair of mine. What I do care about is what you can tell me about your blackmailer.”

“She's insane, sir! Utterly mad. She threatened my brother too… I couldn't. Sir, I'm really sorry, nothing has happened to your brother, I swear.”

“He's a fucking slave!” Mycroft barked.

Greg dropped his hand to his arm. “Myc, calm down, shouting won't get us anywhere.”

Mycroft took a deep breath before speaking again. “Do you recognise this woman?” He slid a photo of Molly onto the desk.

“Yes!” The young man was relieved to be able to tell Mycroft something he could use. “That's the woman that threatened my brother.”

Greg's brow was furrowed in confusion as he caught sight of the photo. “To be clear, we are talking about Molly, Molly Hooper?”

The man nodded, scared it wasn't the answer the pair wanted. This DI of New Scotland Yard might not be quite as powerful as his boss but he could do a heck of a lot of damage on his own.

“Gregory, come on.”

Mycroft snatched his hand and pulled him to the door.

“Myc, where...”

“Surveillance shows Miss Hooper's house is empty, so that's no good. Anthea is looking into her background.” Mycroft swallowed before continuing. “He and John were taken to hospital, Gregory.”

Greg barely caught his boyfriend's phone as it was thrust into his hand. He looked at what was on the screen. “This is the medical report? Jesus.”

“Indeed. We're going to investigate Miss Hooper's home. Perhaps we can find something helpful there whilst Anthea looks elsewhere.”

***

“Is that blood?” Greg asked squatting down by a heavy steel door.

Mycroft couldn't look at it. “I'm assuming whatever is behind this door we are not going to like.”

Greg offered a small smile but nothing would calm either of them fully until Sherlock and John were safe. “Get in here and get those bolts off,” the DI ordered the two men that were stood at the door to the property.

The men with them tried to enter first, but Mycroft and Greg rushed by them. What they found wasn't merely a basement, but a torture chamber. The DI had to reach out to steady his boyfriend who stumbled.

“Gregory...” Mycroft couldn't take his eyes from the two cages and their contents. From the discarded wrappers and medicine bottles, it was clear that the cage's occupants had been human, had been his baby brother and John.

Greg climbed down the last few steps and looked around properly. He pulled out a machine from the corner. “What the fuck?!” It had a weird tube hanging from the front of it and he didn't want to even think about what it was for. He walked to the cross where there was a rather large dildo protruding from the middle.

The small cage had cuffs hanging from the inside and separate hooks. On top of it was an array of canes, some with blood on.

Greg had to take a step back, his legs gave way and he fell to one knee, trying to stop himself from being sick. “Myc…” he choked off.

Mycroft had fallen down to sit on the bottom step.

“Gregory, what have we done…? We never should have left them.”

Greg knelt in front of Mycroft and took his hands in his own. “This.... No one could have anticipated this, Myc. Them getting themselves blown up or shot, yes, but this... Look at me.” He waited until the other man did just that. “It's time for you to do what you do so well. Set your feelings aside and do what has to be done to find them.”

“He's my brother, Greg! My little brother, my baby brother, and I couldn't protect him!”

The DI grabbed Mycroft's face in his hands. “Listen to me. We. Will. Find. Them.”

“But what if it's too late?”

***

Mycroft watched his men charge into the room. His eyes fell on Sherlock and he sighed in relief, he should have gone with them, he knew that but he couldn't have risked it, he'd known that the second he'd clocked the map on the wall and Anthea had got back to him about who this house belonged to. He needed to gather as much information as he could to use against Molly and if he was in the room there was no way she or Sherlock would speak.

His relief didn't last long, Moriarty was there, his hands just above his head as he tried to talk to… Molly not Sherlock, judging by his words. Molly was stood just behind his brother as was John. She seemed to be urging the younger man to fire, using her own gun aimed at the doctor to persuade him.

In a split second his armed men were all yelling at Sherlock to put down his gun. He grabbed the radio, “do not shoot!” He yelled into it. “You do not shoot Sherlock Holmes!” He turned on his heel and ran from the room. “Gregory?!”

“Myc?” The DI ran from a side room to join him.

“Come on, we're going.”

“What about the plan?”

“Sod the plan. I thought Sherlock was the one in danger but he's the one with the gun. And now he's face to face with 15 of my men. If he fires…”

Greg had already raced off ahead, barking orders.

In the back of the car Mycroft had had the feed wired to his phone so they could watch the proceedings. He quickly set up his Bluetooth repeating the order not to fire. This was all too similar to Magnussen… “Drive faster!” He ordered. He didn't trust all his men enough not to fire if Sherlock did first. He was a slave still, in their eyes after all. Clearing the pair of them from the charges and/or finding the real killer was a secondary priority.

***

Sherlock sensed the men around him and he didn't know what to do. He could still shoot Moriarty like Mistress ordered him but the armed men meant this was either a rescue or a trip back to prison. His Mind Palace was too clouded and he ached too much to work out which but it didn't take much to know no one was saving him. Him or John.

Well, if he was going back to prison and Molly wouldn't be allowed to have him anymore, or he was about to be shot, Moriarty was a good reason enough reason for that. Then his gaze fell on John, he had his arms raised looking at him in panic, even Molly had her hands up.

All of this. Everything since the moment they had been picked up had been Molly's fault, all the things she'd done to John… all the things she'd made him do and all he had done in response to John's treatment was to break… to not only let himself but to make himself.

He ignored the armed men and spun to face Molly, the gun still in his hand and a further 15 all aimed at him. He didn't care what happened to him, as long as John was safe. He turned on shaky legs and shoved John back hard, he stumbled and fell out of the line of fire.

The doctor looked up in time to see Sherlock point the gun at Molly.

The detective fired, aiming at her leg just as the door was kicked in. Mycroft raced in, panting hard.

“Don't shoot!” He yelled at his men. “Do not touch him! Either of them!”

Sherlock had dropped the gun and knelt down, his hands rested behind his head and he stared at the floor. He should have aimed to kill.

John rushed forward and gathered the sobbing detective in his arms, rocking him gently and holding him tight. The kneeling man remained stiff, straight and so very slave like.

Mycroft pushed through all the men and joined the pair on the floor. He let John have a moment and then took over, “oh, 'Lock, I'm so so so sorry.”

John was crushed in a hug by Greg as he joined them too.

Sherlock looked at John, his face twisted in conflict. “Sir, I shot Mistress.” He sounded oddly childlike.

“It's ok and please stop calling me that. She can't hurt you now,” the doctor rushed to assure him.

“But I didn't kill her, we still belong to Mistress, sir.”

“No, 'Lock, no we don't.”

“But-”

“She never should have had you in the first place.”

“She did, sir. I was bad.”

John wrapped his arms around him holding him tighter than he ever had.

Mycroft stood back, trying to gain control of his emotions but far from succeeding. He was actually crying.

A medic approached Molly, but Mycroft snapped, “Leave her! Take care of my brother first, then John.”

The medic crouched down by Sherlock and John, but he shrank away, burrowing deeper into the doctor's embrace.

“Move back,” John ordered raising his hand.

The medic didn't move.

“For Christ sake!” He snapped.

Sherlock shook even more, trembling to within an inch of his life at the stern voice.

Mycroft stepped forward and actually placed a hand on John's shoulder.

“These two are not slaves, do you hear me?” He growled in the medic's direction. “They may or may not have done something wrong, until I know for sure you are to treat them like me!”

“Y-yes, sir,” the young man stuttered.

John smoothed Sherlock's hair and made soothing sounds. When the detective had calmed, John tipped Sherlock's head back so he could look him in the eyes. The doctor didn't like what he saw there, uncertainty and fear, but it wasn't the blankness he had become accustomed to over the last week. That was something... maybe. “You need to let the medic check you, babe. He's going to help, make you feel better.”

“Don't leave me,” Sherlock whispered, “Sir. Please.”

John's eyes flickered to Mycroft, he had his hands in fists and looked like he was going through incredible effort to not take it out on the whining woman on the floor. It was either that or he wanted to hold Sherlock he just didn't know how.

“Give me your equipment,” John ordered. “I'll do the checks.”

Greg placed his hand on Mycroft's arm gently. “Myc, if he's going to need to go to hospital...”

“He will,” John said without looking up from what he was doing. “He'll need fluids, more antibiotics and something for pain, at the very least,” he added, thinking of the sound. He'd leave that in until Sherlock had decent painkillers in his system.

“John, what's she done to him? To you?”

He glanced up again. “When I'm not near her and 'Lock is in a better position I will be more than glad to discuss it with you.”

Mycroft waved at the medic who was now simply standing nearby. “If the second ambulance has arrived, get her out of here. See that she's kept under maximum security.” He looked back at John who had started an IV. “What do you need?”

“Time,” was all he said.

Mycroft sighed. “Something I can do to help.”

“I need you to hold him… he's… different now.”

“But he shot her,” Greg pointed out, he'd stopped his pacing to listen.

“I think that's more to do with the gun she had on me than Moriarty.”

“But... Christ, John!” The DI shook his head. “He's Sherlock. He wouldn't simply break, he's stronger than that.”

“Well, clearly he did!” John hadn't meant to snap, but he didn't want to talk about it, any of it in front of Sherlock. “Like I told Mycroft, I'll explain what happened to us later.”

John would have preferred to have the detective carried out on a stretcher, but he wasn't sure Sherlock would agree to it unless he was ordered to and the doctor didn't have it in him to do that just now. He scooped Sherlock up in his arms. “I'll carry him to the ambulance.”

“But he's-” the medic protested.

John quelled him with a glare. “I said I'll carry him. This is not the first time I have had to!”

Sherlock whimpered as he curled into the older man. John didn't know quite how long left of sanity without breaking at the sight of Sherlock he had in him.

“Gregory...” Mycroft began.

“I'll clean up here, then join you.” Greg finished for him. “Um, where?”

The government official snapped his fingers. “Balch! I'm going with my brother. Detective Inspector Lestrade will take over here. When he's ready to leave, bring him to the secure health facility.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft didn't know why the sudden trembling of people beneath him felt so good. He swallowed, hard and followed the doctor and his brother.

John indicated that Mycroft should get on to the bench inside the ambulance, he complied immediately and waited until Sherlock was lowered to his lap.

The detective panicked when John let him go.

“Hey, 'Lock, it's fine. I'm here. It's Mycroft who has got you.”

John was actually surprised when he calmed.

Sherlock frowned. “Mycroft?” He looked at his brother in disbelief, really registering his presence for the first time. “You're not supposed to be here.” He looked back towards John. “Is he, sir?”

Despite how heart breaking it was, John was glad to hear something from Sherlock besides an apology or a simple acknowledgement of a command. “I promised you Mycroft would come, 'Lock.”

Sherlock nodded, just slightly, then buried his head in Mycroft's neck

The older brother actually sobbed. “Oh Sherlock, I'm so so sorry. John… I-”

“Don't,” John shook his head. “Just… never leave him - us,” he amended. “Again.”

The doctor gave a bitter laugh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You go right ahead and bug the flat. Give him a bloody escort if you have to when he gets better.” It had to be when, not if. John wouldn't let himself believe anything else.

“You both,” Mycroft said sadly.

“I…”

“I don't care what you say, John. For looking after him… keeping him safe. I owe you my life.”

“You owe me nothing.”

“John-”

He held up a finger. “He broke,” he choked out. “She beat him and I couldn't stop it and he broke.”

“You'll put him back together,” Mycroft said, hoping he was right. “If anyone can, it's you.”

“I don't know, anymore.” John gave a flinch when the ambulance doors slammed shut, but it was nothing to the jerk Sherlock gave.

“I'm not whole myself,” he added. “She did… awful things but that's nothing compared to what I did. I caned him, Mycroft. I tied him up. I did all sorts…”

Mycroft gave John a stern look. “Don't say another word. You were right, we can discuss this later, when Sherlock's not here to listen.”

John injected a pain killer into Sherlock's IV line. “He'll be out soon. I can start to explain as soon as he is.”

As soon as Sherlock drifted to sleep John sighed in relief. It was about time he had a sleep where he wasn't thrashing in pain.

Mycroft was staring at the doctor in a way he hadn't seen before.

“I see.” Mycroft nodded to himself. “You've realised you're in love with him.”

“Yeah, piss poor timing, that.” John placed his hand on Sherlock's arm as he stared at him.

“Perhaps not,” Mycroft mused aloud. “Perhaps it will be what he needs.”

John collapsed back into a chair of his own.

“But Mycroft… all those things I did to him. How can he ever forgive me for that? How can you? Neither of you should have to. I shouldn't be with him… not anymore.”

Sherlock started struggling to rise off the bench despite the drugs now threatening to drag him into oblivion. “No!” His objection was slurred. “Sir, no, please. Myc, don't let him leave me!”

John's eyes widened in horror. “Sherlock, I gave you enough sedative to last until tomorrow.”

“No no no, sir, please no,” he fought Mycroft's grip on him.

“You can't... can't...” Sherlock's struggled weakened. “I broke for y...” He slumped in his brother's arms as his eyes fell shut, not seeing the look of horror on John's face.


	8. Chapter 8

Since Sherlock's random jolt of alertness he'd stayed asleep. John hadn't spoken since that had happened, had just checked the drugs going into Sherlock were enough and then stared into space.

Mycroft, as understanding as he was trying to be he couldn't bare not knowing what had happened to the pair of them for much longer.

“John, please,” Mycroft made his voice softer than normal, “I need to know what happened. Why would Sherlock choose to break?”

It seemed so obvious, now, what Sherlock had done. John could hardly believe he hadn't figured it out on his own. Of course, Molly couldn't have broken Sherlock, he had done it to himself, but why? He tried to remember, to think back to what had happened around the time the detective had stopped being himself. He couldn't remember. “What didn't that woman do to him?” John asked bitterly.

“To you both,” Mycroft amended.

“It's not me I care about,” John snapped back.

Mycroft sighed. “Start from the beginning?” He asked quietly.

“I don't know the beginning,” John admitted. “There were the trumped up murder charges, the swift conviction and the next thing I knew, he had been bought.” He laughed bitterly. “But it was Molly who bought him and I thought he'd be okay. Still, you know what I did to be with him and Molly bought me as well. It wasn't until I saw him... She'd already started caning him by that point.” John broke off, his throat going tight.

“Go on.” Mycroft knew what his hesitation was. “I won't be mad. I promise.”

“She started off treating us the same and then she suddenly decided he deserved it worse…”

“Hence, Sherlock calling you sir.”

“Yes. I tried to get him not to, at least when she wasn't where he could hear it, but... He kept calling me that.” John looked at Sherlock's face like there were answers to be found there. “He learned his lines so well, saying I was above him and she made me... she made me...”

“Do what, John?”

“Hurt him. It started being small things. Like tying him up. But then she wanted me to cane him. Telling him she gave me a choice between me and him. That was never the choice. It was always me do it as hard as I could to make him cry or she'd double it and do it herself. I never hit him as hard as I could but I still did it.” He looked at Mycroft, tears welling in his eyes. “I would have done anything to stop it, I thought about killing her. I should have done. I should have used the cane to… Fuck.”

“No. If you had done that...” Mycroft shuddered. “You would have both been blamed if she had died. Without me here to intervene… you could very well have both been killed on sight.”

John couldn't continue with this conversation despite needing to. He needed to admit to what he'd done and Mycroft would want to hear it.

Either way he got to his feet and lifted the bed clothes down to Sherlock genitals. He was deep enough unconscious to not feel a thing.

Mycroft hissed as he saw the part of his brother he should never see.

“She made me do this. She couldn't do it so she made me.”

John actually let tears drop as he removed the sound from the tip of the cage, inch by inch.

The cage itself was the next thing to go, leaving Sherlock's cock truly free for the first time in weeks. It look horribly raw and chafed where it lay, but it was the least of Sherlock's physical traumas.

The door opened and a doctor carrying scans results came in.

John snatched them, not caring about manners as he looked through them. He sunk back into his chair.

“What is it?” Mycroft asked, glaring at the new arrival until he left.

“3 broken ribs, 2 broken fingers, and his ulna is cracked. She stamped on it this morning…”

John looked at Sherlock with fierce protectiveness. “Where is she?” he hissed, his left hand clenching into a fist. “Mycroft...”

“She's beyond your reach.”

“Dead?”

Mycroft smiled coldly. “Not yet. She'll need to heal up a bit first.”

“Where is she, Mycroft?” John repeated.

“I'm not telling you that.”

“Why not?” John's fist smacked down on the side of Sherlock's bed as he got to his feet. “This could have been so much worst, if he hadn't have broken it would have been!”

“I'm still not telling you.”

“Then what is the point of you?!”

Mycroft didn't respond.

“He's your baby brother! The little baby brother you've always been so protective about. Why the fuck haven't you done something?!”

He kicked his chair over and stormed out of the room.

“John…”

He shoved passed the two armed men at the door.

“Let him pass,” Mycroft ordered as they tried to block his way.

John stalked down the hallway, daring anyone to get in his way. He didn't even acknowledge Greg when they met in the hall.

The DI turned and watched as John disappeared around a corner. He started to go after him, but thought better of it. Mycroft must have had a reason for letting John go off alone. He walked on down the hall to the room he had been told held Sherlock. The guards blocked his entrance until Mycroft ordered them to let him enter.

“What the hell is up with him?”

“His test results came back.”

Greg spotted the screwed up papers strewn across the room. “He did that?”

“No. I did. It's nowhere near as bad as I was expecting but he's… hurt. Really bad. And mental traumas are a lot harder to cure than physical ones.”

“Sir,” a guard rushed in.

“What is it?!” He snapped.

“There's a problem, sir.”

Mycroft sighed and followed the vague soldier after ordering three men to remain beside Sherlock despite the secure and secret facility. When they arrived at the 'problem' it was to find John kicking in every door he came across, looking for Molly. None of the men had dared to step in his way. Sighing again, he nodded once and two armed men grabbed John's arms and pulled them around behind him.

“John, mate, you need to calm down!” Greg stepped forward.

John kicked back, trying to dislodge the men holding him. It didn't work. They wrestled him to the ground.

“Careful!” Mycroft shouted. “Don't hurt him.” He stepped forward. “John, try to calm down. I don't want to have you sedated.”

“Just tell me where she is!”

“John, please.”

“Sedate me and you'll have more than the current rampage to deal with.”

“Then calm down!”

Despite being on his knees John was giving the two soldiers holding him an extreme amount of trouble trying to keep him on the floor.

“Sir?” The quiet timid voice of Sherlock appeared from behind Mycroft and Greg. They spun around.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft breathed, almost in relief.

He walked forward, his head low, as if he was waiting for someone to berate him for being on his feet. When it didn't happened he continued to make his way forward and fell to his knees in front of the fuming doctor.

“Sir? What's happening? What are they doing to you?”

John went limp in the guards' arms. He didn't want to upset Sherlock. “They're not doing anything to me, 'Lock. I was upset. They were just trying to calm me down.”

Mycroft gave a nod and the guards let John go. He reached out and took Sherlock in his arms.

Sherlock pushed him away, however, making John freeze.

“Why were you upset, sir?”

John stared at his feet. He hated that word. That word should never be used again. Not to him. Not from Sherlock.

He didn't answer, he just sobbed.

Sherlock gathered him up in his arms, pulling him close, offering comfort the only way he knew how to.

John wrapped his arms around him, burying his head in his chest as he sobbed even harder.

Something shifted inside the detective. He needed to fix his friend. John wasn't supposed to cry. It made the detective want to cry. “Please, sir. I don't know what to do. How can I fix this, sir?”

“Please. If you want to fix this, don't call me that.” The doctor held him even tighter. “Call me John.”

“Yes, si… John.”

John's eyes flickered up and he met Mycroft's. The older man actually grinned.

The moment only broke off because Sherlock hugged the blond too tight and whimpered.

“Shh,” John soothed immediately. “Where did it hurt?”

Sherlock wasn't going to answer but he held his chest while looking at his arm.

“I know,” John whispered. He got to his feet and scooped up the detective. He began to walk back towards the room Sherlock had been in. “We'll get you fixed.”

The doctor placed Sherlock gently on the hospital bed. “'Lock, I'm going to restart your IV.” He had to be careful how he said the next part or the detective would take it as chastisement. “I don't want you to remove it again. Promise me.”

Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes. “I'm sorry, Si… John. I woke up and you were gone…”

John shushed him. “It's okay. You found me and we're together. I won't leave you like that again.”

Behind the doctor, Mycroft's sigh of relief was audible. He knew John would keep that promise. He wouldn't have to put the room on lockdown.

“John, would you like some help?”

John looked over at Mycroft, he was holding out two other doctors.

“Not from them. You and Greg will be fine.”

Mycroft nodded, the doctors hurried off leaving a trolley with all the equipment they'd need to get Sherlock mended. Or at least on the road to recovery.

Together, they wrapped Sherlock's ribs, splinted the fingers on his right hand and got his arm into a sling. As they worked, the detective was silent, eerily so. There were a few whimpers, but no scathing remarks. It drove home to Mycroft and Greg just how broken Sherlock was.

Greg never thought he'd see the day that he was annoyed at there being no 'don't give a crap' attitude.

He looked across the table at Mycroft and together they looked at John. The doctor was just watching Sherlock, who remained impassive, staring at the ceiling like it was the most entertaining thing in the world.

“Mycroft, a word,” Greg said quietly. When the elder Holmes looked up Greg jerked his head towards the door. Together, they stepped out of the room.

Mycroft couldn't pull his eyes away from the door to Sherlock's room. “Yes, Gregory?”

The DI took a deep, shaky breath. “So, Molly. Where is she?”

“She's in custody, receiving minimal medical care. For now.” The tone of Mycroft's voice let Greg know that wouldn't be the case for long.

“And then what?”

“Well I think it's about time we found out who the real murderer was, don't you?”

“And then?” Greg repeated.

“If it's what I expect or rather who, I could do with a slave at the Diogenes…”

The DI nodded. It wasn't the answer he had been hoping for, but maybe Mycroft had the better idea - he usually did. “Right.” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to decide what to say. “Do you want me to question her?”

“Oh, no, Gregory. That privilege falls to me. However, I'd love for you to be there. Two angry powerful men is better than one.”

Greg smiled slight despite the stress of the day and nodded. “I'll be there. If only to support you.”

Mycroft returned his smile only for it to be cut off by a yell from inside.

Greg and Mycroft bolted back into the room to find John standing protectively over Sherlock. He had put himself between the detective and a nurse. She was rather diminutive with long brown hair.

“Out!” Mycroft ordered sharply.

The woman hurried out, a worried look on her face.

“Tell everyone to come through me, Gregory or John, no one is to have contact with my little brother. Is that understood?”

John had got Sherlock calm enough to lay back on his bed, though he was clutching at the doctor's hands tightly. “Remember, 'Lock, Mycroft is here. He won't let that woman near you, neither will I or Greg. Molly can't get to you, to us, here.”

Sherlock was shaking his head. He couldn't seem to compute that they were alone, that there was no Molly, that Mycroft was here.

“Sir, I don't...”

“John,” the doctor corrected gently.

Sherlock shook his head and whispered. “I can't, sir. You saw her, Mistress might hear.”

John closed his eyes. “It doesn't matter what she hears. If she hears anything at all. You're safe.”

He was shaking his head again. John looked over to Mycroft for help.

The government official crouched down beside him. “I shouldn't be here, should I, 'Lock?”

Sherlock agreed readily.

“But I am. Me and Gregory both are. That means she's not here right?”

Sherlock's agreement this time was reluctant, but he nodded.

His brother continued, “Do you think anyone would dare harm you or John with me present?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Good, because you're right and, 'Lock, I'm not going anywhere. I won't leave you, never again.”

Mycroft could clearly see Sherlock's thoughts. The thoughts at a time not so long ago would have been voiced. The 'you left me. Us' it didn't need to be spoken for Mycroft to hear it.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I'm so sorry.”

The detective's eyes shut, forcing a single tear to squeeze out and run down his face. Mycroft reached out and wiped it away. He cleared his throat before speaking to John. “What would be preferable, John? Should I have another bed brought into the room for you or would it be better to bring in one large bed for you to share?”

The doctor shook his head, any self-consciousness he might have once felt, washed away by his concern for Sherlock. “I don't know. 'Lock? Did you hear Mycroft? What do you want?”

Sherlock's eyes snapped open at that. He wasn't asked questions! Choices weren't his to make! They were Mistress'.

“What is it?” John asked softly.

“Mistress wouldn't want you near me. She'd know what to do, sir.”

John's fist clenched, but he managed to make his voice sound calm and firm, barely. “In the absence of...” John ground his teeth, “Miss, who are you supposed to listen to?”

“You, sir.”

“John, but yes. And I say that we are supposed to be together so I can take care of you.”

Sherlock didn't seem all too convinced but he ducked his head. “Yes, sir.”

Mycroft swallowed awkwardly. “He's been like this for how long?”

John smoothed back Sherlock's curls. It seemed like forever, but had really been how long? “One week, two?”

Feeling even sicker, Mycroft sat in a nearby chair. “If only we had come back sooner.”

John didn't respond. He couldn't. He watched Sherlock for a long while before speaking again.

“The worst part is knowing he did nothing against the law to deserve this.”

Greg felt like a useless lump stood in the corner of the room as he was. He felt like he should be doing something to help, but what could he do? Maybe- “I could get on that, clearing him.” It was little enough he could do.

“I'll come,” Mycroft offered.

Sherlock didn't respond… verbally at least. His bottom lip was bitten between his teeth to stop his whimper.

Mycroft spotted it and sighed.

“Of course I want him cleared but I don't want you to leave my sight, Gregory. Not right now. I'm sorry.”

He smiled and dropped his hand on his shoulder. “It's fine. I'll get all the paperwork and my laptop dropped off.”

Mycroft nodded his thanks. “I know it's asking a lot, but I need you here where you're safe.” He directed his next words to John. “I'll have another room prepared for the two of you, something less clinical, one large bed and anything else you think you might need.”

“Why are you pushing the bed issue?” John asked. It didn't make sense.

“Because, John, my brother is clearly calmer in your presence and I'm not sure we could get him to let your hand go.” He didn't say anything about Sherlock's calming effect on the doctor.

“I don't think he wants either of you to leave either. And neither do I.”

“We're just fine, aren't we Gregory?”

He nodded. “I've sent off a text.”

Mycroft pulled out his own phone. “I'll text Anthea with instructions. She can arrange everything and I won't have to go anywhere.”

“Good idea,” the DI agreed. He rested his hands on the elder Homes' shoulder and started massaging them absently. He looked at John. The doctor looked pale, no, grey. “When was the last time you ate? Either of you?”

“This morning, but that was just so Sherlock would be able to kill Jim. Food for us wasn't exactly a priority as far as she was concerned.” John shrugged. “I don't think I could eat anyway, but Sherlock should.”

Mycroft had some food arranged for all four of them. Soup arrived for them and on a tray for the detective. It sat over him so he didn't have to hold the bowl.

But Sherlock didn't touch it. He held the spoon in his good hand which John had placed there, but he was leant back against a load of pillows, staring absently at the door in front of him.

The doctor sighed, fighting to keep it from evolving into a sob. Taking the spoon from Sherlock, he scooped up a spoonful of the soup and held it to the detective's lips. “Come on, 'Lock. Eat for me.”

At those words Sherlock's mouth opened.

He let John push the spoon in and then swallowed.

He tried to get him to eat alone but he didn't think he would at least not without an order and that was a last resort.

“'Lock, can we try together?” Mycroft offered, “let John eat something too?”

Sherlock looked at his brother like he was indecipherable. Slowly, he reached to take his spoon back. As he started to lift the spoon to his mouth, his eyes went wide and he started to panic.

“'Lock, what's wrong?” John followed the detective's gaze to the door. Sally Donovan was standing just outside, talking to the guards.

“She'll tell Mistress!” Sherlock tried to scramble from the bed. “What if Mistress sent her?”

“Sherlock, it's fine, she's here on-” Greg was cut off at the detective's apparent disagreement. He'd kicked the tray from his lap and had fallen to the floor in a heap.

John wanted to help him but he'd fallen on Mycroft's side and he had immediately moved to his brother. The doctor got to his feet, stamped his way across the room and grabbed Donovan by the scruff of the neck. He didn't care that she was a woman. He dragged her into the room and threw her at the DI. “Do you want to know what this did?” He growled low in his throat. “The fucking audacity she has to turn up here!”

Greg caught her by the upper arms, keeping her from falling. He had known she didn't like Sherlock, but she couldn't be part of Molly's plan, surely. “Tell me you weren't helping Molly,” he said to her gruffly.

“Molly? Helping her? I don't understand! And are you going to let a slave get away with that?!” Donovan tried to jerk away, but the DI didn't let her.

John spotted Sherlock cowering from the woman, and Mycroft trying his hardest to protect him from whatever threat he perceived her as.

“We'll be in the hall, Myc,” Greg grumbled.

He dragged Sally from the room and threw her against the wall, although he didn't do it as hard as he would have liked to. “First, neither of those men are slaves, if you want to argue that point, you can talk to Mycroft. Second, if you were in on what Molly had planned, you can kiss your arse goodbye. So, start talking. Why is Sherlock afraid of you?” With every word he spoke, Greg's normally calm demeanour fled even further away.

John joined them. “I'd be willing to explain if she isn't.”

Donovan frowned. “I've done nothing wrong!”

“She offered to help keep Sherlock in line. She cuffed him and shoved him in the boot. She was a blind...” John punched the wall instead of punching Sally. “She thought it was funny to make him look like a dog in front of the parents of a murdered teenager that Sherlock was trying to solve. Yes Dimmock told me. He told me everything. I just didn't know what I could do with the information.”

“Dimmock knows about this?”

John nodded. “He just didn't know what he could do. I think he tried getting hold of you.”

Greg ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it so it stood up on end. “We were in such a hurry to get to you, I never returned his calls once I had my mobile back. I'll phone him. Knowing Dimmock, maybe he's been poking around the murder case. He's not the idiot Sherlock thinks he is.” He glared at Sally. “As for you, give me my things and get the hell out of here. Don't bother reporting back to work. You're on suspension.”

“You're not even my acting superior,” she argued.

“John would you go and swap with Mycroft, I sense his presence would work wonders with Sergeant Donovan.”

The sergeant flinched, as well she should have. “Wait! I'll-”

“Too late, Sally,” John spat out her name. “You're about to answer to the British Government.”

John pushed passed her to get into Sherlock's room. The government official had managed to get his little brother back up and onto the bed.

“See, he wasn't gone long.”

Just the sight of Sherlock made John's temper begin to dwindle. “Greg requires your assistance,” he said through gritted teeth.

Mycroft raised a single brow. He'd always thought Donovan a tedious woman, petty and vindictive, but had given her no more thought than that. He waited for John to take over and moved into the hall. The look he levelled at her was his coldest. “Miss Donovan,” he said, deliberately not using her rank, “I advise you to agree to anything Gregory tells you. Should you fail to do so, I shall determine the course your life takes from here on out.”

She frowned even more. “He has nothing over me. And I've done nothing wrong.”

Mycroft actually growled. Deep and low in his throat. “Gregory, would you give us a moment?”

Greg shot her a pitying look. Well, not too pitying, Sally had earned everything she was about to get. He carefully closed the door behind him as he entered Sherlock's room.

Greg walked over to stand by his friend's bed. “Sherlock, it's Greg. We haven't really talked.”

The detective looked at John, then back to Greg.

He didn't seem to know what to do. Even as he opened his mouth to let John push some ice cream between his lips.

“This is the bit where you tell me all of that was obvious,” Greg said gently. “It'd be kind of nice to hear, actually.”

Sherlock's eyes widened. Wasn't that what Mistress had been talking about, how rude he was to people and how he treated them? “I'm sorry, sir,” the detective said, but it was directed at Lestrade rather than at John.

The DI flinched and glanced at John. “I guess this is what it's been like for you for weeks.”

John nodded. “Yeah,” he said sadly.

“It's Greg, Sherlock, just call me Greg,” the DI urged.

Sherlock shook his head. “I didn't mean to be rude to you.”

“What?” Greg shook his head. “You haven't been rude to me.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” he repeated.

Greg glanced to the blond again.

“What for this time?”

“Offending you, sir.”

The DI collapsed into the chair. “You haven't offended me, you haven't been rude or insulting. You've been very good.” And that was the last thing Greg wanted.

John reached over and took a syringe that Greg hadn't seen laying there. The doctor injected it into Sherlock's IV line. He noticed the DI watching. “It's something to help him rest. He'll be asleep in no time.”

“No,” Sherlock complained. “Please, sir, no.”

“Shh,” John whispered, cupping his cheek. “You'll feel better after a little sleep.”

It was painful for Greg to watch, the way Sherlock struggled to keep his eyes open and focused on John. It came as a relief when those blue-green eyes slid shut.


	9. Chapter 9

“Myc, you were right.” Greg encouraged both John and Mycroft over to join him next to his laptop. “It's good. But all evidence that doesn't point towards Sherlock points towards Hooper.”

John's fist clenched in his pockets, much like Mycroft's did, but more visibly. “And nobody looked to defend him,” his gaze flickered over to his brother.

“Dimmock did,” Greg offered.

“What now?” The doctor ground out.

Mycroft's face was rather scary to look at. “Now we speak to her. Gregory, with me.” With that he stood and walked to the door. Mycroft paused in the door frame looking over his brother. He swallowed difficultly and as he went to turn he froze solid at the terrified voice of his baby brother.

“I told you, sir, I told you he wouldn't stay.”

Mycroft reached out and grasped the door frame to steady himself. The Hooper woman had to be dealt with, but how could he leave Sherlock after that? He took a step back into the room and looked at his brother. “I'll stay, but would it be okay if Gregory goes?

Sherlock's gaze flickered to the copper. He didn't answer. It wasn't his place to make decisions.

“No,” John answered for him. He took his hand. “You are the only sane people he's had contact with in the last 3 months and I think he won't believe it's over unless we stay with him.”

Mycroft nodded once and sat beside the doctor. Greg joined them on the other side of the bed. They were left with one choice, but it wasn't going to be the best or easiest. Bring Hooper here, keep her nearby, secure, but they had to keep her out of sight of Sherlock and out of John's way or she'd be dead before they had answers.

Clearing his throat, Mycroft reached out and smoothed the covers over his brother's lap. “I'll have Mrs. Hudson gather some things to make you both more comfortable. Is there anything you would like, 'Lock?”

The detective looked at his brother with wide eyes, then looked to John as if for help. The doctor sighed and squeezed his grip on his hand.

“What about your violin?” Greg tried.

Sherlock's eyes widened in panic. “Sir, no please-”

John was on the bed next to Sherlock in next to no time.

Greg frowned, immediately feeling guilty. “I don't understand…”

“The bow was used…” John whispered over Sherlock's head as he held him. “On him. On us.”

Mycroft grit his teeth as his brother sobbed into John's chest. “Ok, what about Mozilla?”

John looked over at him and Mycroft hastened to explain. “It was a toy he had as a kid. It's a stuffed meerkat. If Mrs. Hudson has kept all of your stuff where it was, it'll be under his bed.”

“What about you, John?” Greg offered. “Is there anything you need?”

The doctor looked down at himself.

“Fresh clothes don't count,” Mycroft said with a soft smile. “They'll come as standard. Anything at all to help or even just to entertain yourself or Sherlock.”

“A book, I guess.” John dry washed his face. “Maybe our laptops and,” he bit his lip, “and new phones. Oh, the skull. And his dressing gown, the blue one.” At this last, John's voice cracked.

There was a whisper from the detective, but only John heard it. He actually managed to smile.

“His aubergine shirt,” he whispered. He kissed Sherlock on the head before he leant back. “Do you fancy a shower or even a bath, Babe? It would be nice to have a relax, don't you think?” Sherlock didn't answer, but John could see his willingness.

Mycroft sensed their opportunity. They could get Hooper to them in 20 minutes, the same amount of time as it would be to get everything else sorted and if John kept his brother in the bath it should give himself and the DI a chance to ask questions they probably weren't going to like the answers to.

“One moment.” Mycroft tapped out multiple messages. The first was to arrange to have Miss Hooper relocated to a nearby holding cell. The second was to arrange for a bath for John and Sherlock. The third was to arrange for the gathering of things from 221B. “There. In a few minutes, your bath will be ready.”

Sherlock looked down at where he was holding John's hand and smiled, though it was small and shy.

“Maybe we could get you back into your suit after, yeah? Instead of these pyjamas, you could even sit over at the table, play on your laptop when it arrives?” John suggested.

Sherlock blinked a few times, biting his lip. He wanted that, he really did, but...

“It's okay, babe. It's all good,” the doctor reassured. “I can't wait to see you back in a suit and doing the things you like to do.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked softly.

“Because I want you to be happy.”

“No,” Sherlock whispered. “Why do you keep calling me that, sir?”

The doctor sighed softly. He reached over and cupped his cheek. “Because I love you. And I should have told you this before.”

“You said…” he trailed off, looking away in a panic.

“I said it to you at the hospital the other day, yes. But I meant I should have said it before. Before all this happened… before I let it happen.”

Sherlock clutched at the doctor's arm like a lifeline. He rubbed his cheek against it, careless of the tears he left in his wake. “I don't... I don't... Don't leave me.”

Mycroft watched on, his hand gripped tightly in Gregory's. He had his heart in his throat… maybe his brother back in his suit would make him seem okay if only temporarily. He'd been in it when they'd found him, but his shirt has been untucked, his jacket hadn't fitted him right and that blasted collar on his coat had been flat.

Several minutes later, Sherlock had relaxed again. A dark haired man stepped into the room and indicated that the bath was ready. The glance he gave Mycroft also indicated that Molly Hooper was well on her way to her new location. Mycroft stood, his hand still in Greg's. He leaned over to ruffle Sherlock's curls. “We'll leave you to have a bath, 'Lock. It'll be a little weird if we watch, won't it?”

Sherlock didn't speak but it was clear he understood what Mycroft was saying.

John waited until they were alone. “It's just us. I'll stay, if you want, babe, but if you want true privacy, I can go.”

Sherlock squeezed his hand. “Sir, stay.”

“I will if you call me John. I'm going to keep insisting on that.”

“J... John, stay. Please.”

Together, they got the detective from the bed and made their way to the bathroom.

Out in the hallway, Mycroft gave Greg a determined look. “It's time for us to talk to that woman. She'll be here at any moment.” He knocked on the bathroom door quickly and John answered. He flinched without meaning to at the look on his face. “I know you're not stupid, John, we're locking the door to keep you in there.”

The doctor sighed. “I just want to talk to her.”

“You'll get your turn.”

“Si... John.” Sherlock called from within the bathroom.

“I'll be right there,” the doctor called back. To Mycroft, he said, “Make sure I get my turn with her.”

“You're going to have to trust me and Gregory, John. We'll see to the Hooper woman.” Mycroft's voice was steady and left no room for doubt.

Even so, “When it's you she made cane her best friend… made you tie him up and do horrible things to him. Made you break him, then I'll trust you to deal with her. For now, I need to look after him, but you will let me speak to her Mycroft,” John spat.

The government official took an involuntary step back at the ferociousness in John's voice. Clearly, it had only been the consequences that would have befallen Sherlock that had kept the ex-army soldier from acting against Molly previously. No questions would have been asked had she been harmed, no her two slaves would simply have been put to death.

“You'll get your turn,” Mycroft repeated with a nod. “Now please look after him.”

John glanced over at the detective. He'd moved from being sat on the loo to kneel beside the tub. “I intend to.”

Mycroft closed the door, going to find his boyfriend. He was going to enjoy this. The elder Holmes put on every bit of his British Government demeanour and turned, along with Greg, to face the man waiting nearby. “Take us to the Hooper woman.”

Molly was sat in a room looking around the drab metal walls. She had the audacity to turn her nose up at it. When the door opened she looked up, immediately whining at the pain in her leg as she moved it.

“All comfy, I see,” Mycroft said in a mild tone. “I'm glad you don't have any complaints about you treatment. Even unofficial guests of the crown must be treated with respect.”

“I do have complaints!” Molly spat. “My leg hurts like bloody hell and all I've been given is a couple of paracetamol.”

“You're lucky it wasn't poison,” Greg said with a falsely winsome smile.

“Two paracetamol in 18 hours!” She yelled.

“The constant caning, tying up, those devices in the basement were only suitable for willing participants. And how many paracetamol did you give my brother? Or John? Or did you not bother?” Mycroft slammed his hands down on the desk in front of her.

“You have nothing to charge me with. No evidence. And they are slaves, you can't use their testimonies in court.”

“I'm the fucking British Government!” Mycroft spat. “I don't need a court!

Molly turned pleading eyes and a trembling lip on the DI. He gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, I know you for what you are, now. You're pure evil wrapped up in a pretty package.”

“You aren't really here on his side, you must be the good cop in this situation.”

“You have got to be joking. He is my boyfriend. And those two, those two that you tortured and tormented both physically and emotionally are my friends. My closest friends, you really think I'm on your side?!”

“Sherlock's nobody's friend!” she spat. “Even Sally knows he's a freak. Everyone at the Yard knows it. Watson's just as strange for hanging around with him. Freaks, the both of them. You're smarter than that, Greg. And you're not his boyfriend, you've been waiting to make your move on me.”

The DI actually burst out laughing. “I'm gay, you absolute-”

Mycroft wrapped his arms around him before he could do anything he might or might not regret.

“You're delusional!” He spat over Mycroft's arms.

Before anybody in the room realised what was happening, the door had been kicked in and John charged in, he went straight for the woman. In a flash, he had her out of the chair and up against the wall, his hands wrapped around her throat. If he squeezed just a bit tighter...

“John,” Sherlock called in a panic, “you can't hurt Mistress.”

The doctor looked around. He'd locked Sherlock in the bathroom. Obviously he'd managed to pick the lock. “Sherlock, stay out of this.”

Molly was actually smiling, grinning at Sherlock who had fallen to his knees. Greg rushed forward and dragged John off her, he managed to stop the struggling man and force him to the floor.

Molly laughed, despite the pain in her leg. “You see, Watson, just a slave.”

“I may be. He isn't!” He spat, pointing at the kneeling detective. He began struggling again, thrashing in the DI's arms.

Mycroft had to ignore his brother for a moment. He went and knelt in front of the doctor. “John, stop it, John, listen to me! If you kill her now she won't suffer, she won't suffer like you and 'Lock did,” his voice was near a sob.

John didn't care about what she had done to him except where it touched on Sherlock's own mistreatment. It was what she had done to his friend, what she had made John do to him that had him in a rage. He stopped struggling, provisionally. “You swear to me, Mycroft, that she will suffer. She won't go to someone kind.”

The government official gave Molly a thin smile. “Miss Hooper will never be placed for sale. I already have plans for her.”

She had collapsed to the floor in giggles, but she paused at that… “You're not serious…”

“He is my baby brother. What the fuck did you think would happen?!”

“Mycie, no,” his brother pleaded, “you can't shout at Mistress, sir.”

“John.” Mycroft gestured towards Sherlock.

The doctor moved towards him and Greg let him go. “Shh, Babe. Look at me.” He cupped Sherlock's cheek and turned his face so their eyes met. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do, John.”

“Then believe me when I say that woman is not your mistress. She's no one's mistress. Molly is nothing more than a criminal who has attracted the attention of the British Government.”

“But for what, si- John?”

“Oh, 'Lock.” He wrapped his arms around the kneeling man and brought his head to the crook of his neck.

“For what she did to us. How she hurt us and made you… do stuff. She's the slave now and me but not you!”

“We'll continue our discussion later, Miss Hooper,” Mycroft said with a gesture to a nearby guard who took her away. He crouched next to his brother and John. “I have to choose my battles. I've chosen to aim my forces at Hooper rather than trying to get a pardon for John.” He held up a placating hand to his brother who had grown even more agitated. “I've already purchased his contract and assigned him to you. No one can separate the two of you. I trust you find this agreeable John?”

The doctor grinned. He tried to stand up, to shake Mycroft's hand, to thank him, but Sherlock wouldn't let him go.

“You're a slave, sir… you can't… I can't… I'm wrong.”

“Sh, sh, Babe.” John cupped Sherlock's face in his hands. “So long as I'm with you, nothing could make me happier. Can I kiss you?” John asked softly. The detective nodded, eyes wide. John leaned forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock's forehead, not wanting to overwhelm him any more than he already was. “Come on, 'Lock, let's go and get you dressed. He had gotten so used to seeing Sherlock in nothing but pants that it hadn't been the most obvious thing in the world.

Mycroft and Greg held back, giving the other two men the illusion of privacy as they made their way passed guards and down the hall. At the door to their room, Sherlock looked around for his brother and hesitated. He clearly wanted him to come in with them. Mycroft sighed and, along with Greg, followed the other two men into the room.

It was just like when he had been a kid. Sherlock wouldn't let Mycroft out of sight and when he'd left for school, he'd cried for days.

Mycroft moved over to him and bent down with a pair of socks. “One foot,” he said, smiling as he detective lifted one up.

Greg stood back and watched as his boyfriend and John got Sherlock dressed. The doctor tousled Sherlock's hair into suitable unruliness, emphasising its need for a cut. John's hair could do with a cut as well. The DI shook his head, they could do with a bit more weight on them and only time would heal the cuts and bruises.

John suddenly picked the younger man up and spun him around. “Do you fancy a bit of fresh air, Babe?” He asked, looking over his shoulder at Mycroft as he asked.

“There's a large private park out the back if he wants to,” Mycroft offered.

“We could get you back in your coat?” John suggested hopefully l.

Sherlock blinked, a too common occurrence, but he nodded. John held the Belstaff up for him and the detective put it on. Unable to resist himself, the doctor reached out and turned the collar up. “There. Now you look like my Sherlock, the world's only consulting detective.”

That made the detective frown. “Consulting what?”

Greg sighed. “Hey, Sherlock, could you maybe call me an idiot?”

His brow furrowed even more. “Why would I do that, sir?”

“Because you're a bloody genius and I'm not,” the DI said sadly.

John couldn't keep his hands to himself, he had to touch Sherlock. He placed his hand at the small of the detective's back. “Let's go outside.”

“Will Mistress be there?”

“No, 'Lock, you never have to see her again,” John sighed.

“Mycie will be there though, won't you, sir? And you Jeff?”

Greg laughed through sudden tears. “Yes, yes, we'll be there.” Sherlock could call him Jeff, Gavin or George if he liked. It was a spark of the true Sherlock that had to still be there inside.

The doctor lowered Sherlock to the floor, taking the hand that wasn't in the sling. “Is there a pond or something?” John asked. It appeared to him that Sherlock had reverted back to some younger aged version of himself, maybe he would be content doing something a child would enjoy.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, “with ducks.”

“You couldn't get hold of some bread, could you? It might be something he'll enjoy.”

“I think that can be arranged,” Mycroft agreed readily enough. “And perhaps a picnic. You both need to put on some weight.”

Greg pulled out his mobile and offered it to Sherlock. “In the meantime, have a look at this.”

Sherlock stared at it as if he didn't know what to do.

John smiled sadly, taking it from Greg.

“What are we looking at?” John asked.

Greg scrolled through some of his messages pausing at a certain few. John read them first, before he let Sherlock see.

Donovan had officially been suspended by Dimmock.

Sherlock's mouth quirked up in the barest hint of a smile, but he quickly quashed it.

“It's ok to smile, 'Lock,” John told the detective. “She deserves it. Maybe she's not evil, but Sally is a despicable woman.”

Greg snorted. “For my money, she's guilty of abuse.”

“Abuse, sir? Who has she abused?” He quickly looked away, realising he wasn't supposed to ask questions. He was the one told - ordered - what to do, not the other way around.

John handed the DI his phone back and stopped the group by cupping Sherlock's cheeks between his hands. “You, 'Lock.”

The detective's eyes flitted over John's face, trying to understand the doctor's simple words. “But I was a slave, what she did...”

“Was still abuse. Slaves aren't to be mistreated in such a way. Even if you had been guilty of that murder, what she did to you was wrong.” John pulled Sherlock's head down and rested their foreheads together. “Believe it for me if not for yourself.”

“Mr. Holmes?”

Once upon a time both Mycroft and Sherlock would have turned but instead just the government official did.

The young man behind them was carrying two plastic bags, full of what appeared to be loaves of bread. “I have your required bread, sir. Your picnic is being set up beside the lake and there is a wheelchair at the door to the park in case Mr. Holmes junior requires it.”

As they stepped out into the park, Sherlock stopped, closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun that was graciously shining. He seemed to drink it in. It wasn't surprising, John supposed. Their few excursions outside these last few months hadn't exactly given either of them cause to linger. The doctor wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist and leaned his head against his shoulder, letting the moment play out as it would.

The doctor spotted the wheelchair. “Do you want a ride, 'Lock?”

The detective frowned. “I'm allowed, si- John?”

John put on his best smile. “Absolutely. It might be fun. Go ahead, have a seat.”

When Sherlock sat, the doctor started wheeling him about, making sounds like an aeroplane. He couldn't see it, but Mycroft and Greg could - Sherlock actually smiled. He really had regressed to the mental age of a child.

Mycroft watched the situation unfold. Maybe it would help his brother recover quicker, children tended to, after all.

Greg took his boyfriend's hand and led him over to where the picnic had been set up. He pulled him to the ground so they were sitting together. “Tell me you have something really nasty planned for that woman,” the DI demanded as he watched John and Sherlock.

Sherlock now had one of the bags on his lap, bread open. The doctor had pushed him to the edge of the lake and was encouraging him to throw the bread in.

Mycroft chuckled as his little brother began flinging full slices at the ducks. It was clear that Sherlock was aiming at the ducks, not just to get the bread near them, but to hit them in the head.

“He must have been an unholy terror as a child,” Greg opined.

“Oh that is nothing, I'm sure if his ribs weren't giving him gip he'd be in there chasing them. He caught one once and hugged it. He some how managed to convince father to let him keep it in the garden.”

Sherlock looked over, hearing what Mycroft was saying. “Can we, Myc?” He asked, just loud enough to be heard.

Mycroft gave him a sad smile. “These ducks stay here year round, 'Lock. They won't fly away. You can visit them any time you like.”

That didn't seem to be good enough, Sherlock bit his lip and looked at the ducks longingly.

“How about we get you a different duck? From somewhere else?” Mycroft suggested.

“A brown one,” his brother said with a smile.

“If you want a brown one.”

“Why do you like ducks so much, 'Lock?” John was intrigued by this new development.

“They're always happy.”

Mycroft couldn't argue with that. “Then we shall procure a happy brown duck.” He picked up a jam sandwich and carried it to his brother. “Perhaps you would care to eat, 'Lock?”

The detective frowned at the bread. “Boring,” he whispered.

Mycroft almost collapsed in relief, as both Greg and John joined the government official.

The doctor held out a chocolate hobnob which received a slightly better reception. Sherlock took it and nibbled at it contentedly. “It's basically the only thing he ate when we were with Molly.” John explained to the other two.

They watched as Sherlock got to his feet, a little wobbly at first and Mycroft who was closest reached out to steady him. The detective walked to the water's edge, not protesting his brother's assistance. He bent over unsteadily and picked up a few feathers that were laying on the ground.

“What do you want those for, 'Lock?” John asked quietly.

“Specimens,” came the soft reply.

“For your microscope?” Greg asked. He glanced at Mycroft when he nodded. “Was that part of the list you texted Anthea with?”

“Mm, yes, and a few other oddments.” At John's worried look, Mycroft hastened to add, “Nothing dangerous, I assure you.”

“This is your brother we're talking about. He could make gelatine dangerous,” Greg gently teased.

Sherlock's gaze flickered to the doctor. “Wouldn't that be bad, sir?” He finally asked Greg.

“Bad? And it's Greg or Jeff or anything that isn't sir.”

“Gavin?” Sherlock asked softly, but with the slightest gleam of mischief in his eyes.

John couldn't help himself, he hugged Sherlock fiercely. “Why not King George?”

“You can call me Gavin if you want.”

“I want to go in.”

“The house?” John asked, they hadn't been outside very long.

“No, John,” he pointed at the lake.

“I...” The doctor frowned. “It's much too cold. Mycroft, is there a swimming pool nearby?”

“Yes, in the facility adjoining a gym. Access to it will be no problem.”

John ran his hand along Sherlock's arm. “How's that sound, 'Lock?”

It was clear Sherlock wanted to argue, but he didn't. He just made his way to the blanket laid out on the floor and sat beside it.

John sat down alongside him, close enough that their knees touched. The brunette leaned against him, cradling his injured arm. “I'm tired, John. I want to sleep.”

“A minute ago you wanted to go in the lake.”

Sherlock closed his eyes.

Greg gave the doctor a hand to move him over from the grass to the blanket. He immediately laid out and rested his head in John's lap. He curled around John, burying his face in the doctor's chest. It took a moment for the older man to realise that Sherlock's was crying softly.

“Babe,” John asked, “what's wrong?”

Sherlock didn't answer, just turned away again. The doctor looked up at Mycroft almost in a panic.

Mycroft and his boyfriend both knelt down beside him. “What is it, 'Lock?”

Shaking his head, Sherlock seemed to be trying to burrow into John to avoid answering the question. Finally, he peeked up at the doctor's worried face. “Good things never last.”


	10. Chapter 10

John looked at the sleeping detective on the large bed. Mycroft had helped him carry Sherlock inside from the private park earlier that day. Even in sleep, the younger man's face looked troubled. The doctor wanted to wipe all of the hurt and care away, but he didn't know how. He wondered if they'd ever get their Sherlock back. The real Sherlock, the proper Sherlock. The rude yet oddly charming Sherlock.

Greg, at a knock on the door, opened it. A couple of men entered with boxes. He glanced back, to see that Sherlock was still asleep. “Quiet, please, and just set everything down. We'll unload it later.” As the men left, he bent and picked up the skull, smiling at it.

Sherlock hadn't even jerked. John looked over at Mycroft. “What's the long term solution here?”

The government official hadn't taken his eyes off his brother since they'd laid him down. Mycroft shook his head. “Is there one? I suppose I should have him sectioned, but...”

“No!” John shouted, causing the detective to partially rouse.

They held their collective breaths, waiting to see if he would settle back into slumber. When his soft snoring resumed, Mycroft spoke again, “You didn't let me finish, John. I was going to say that I couldn't do it. I'll hire someone to care for him at home. I've already said that you are to be assigned to him, that hasn't changed, but you'll need help. You can't be with him 24 hours a day.”

“Why not? I have been for the last 3 months. Or had you forgotten that?” John could feel his temper rising. “You went away, Mycroft, you went away and left him! Left us! I'll not have anybody with us, he'll hate it. Hate them. If that's your solution you can fuck off.”

Mycroft stood and walked to the window. He fisted his hands briefly at his sides, then opened them again. None of this was John's fault, he had to remember that. “Who is going to go buy your food, John? Who will go to the chemists when needed? Who will give you just an hour when you desperately need it to go to the pub to talk with a friend? And you will need to, don't fool yourself. Greg and I will help as much as we can, but we won't always be able to be there.”

“Then we fix him! This can't be permanent. He's Sherlock! It's my fault he's like this. There's no way he will stay with anyone else for any period of time without a direct order. I'm not going to do it. Are you?”

Mycroft slumped, defeated. “Of course not. You may be legally my slave for the remainder of your sentence, but I will never exercise my role as your master, not unless your life or Sherlock's is in direct danger.” He worked his hand as if he were gripping his umbrella. “What do you suggest?”

John didn't get a chance to answer. Sherlock was awake. And going by the look on his face he had been a while. He was staring at the ceiling. Acting as if he wasn't there.

When the doctor tried to take Sherlock's hand, he rolled away. “Not your fault. Not your responsibility. Don't need fixed.”

Mycroft came over and sat beside him, the side he had rolled to. “'Lock, you do need fixing. But we'll do it together ok? You'll soon be out with Gregory chasing killers and bad people.”

“Like me?”

“No. You're not bad,” John rushed to say. “Why would you think you were?”

“Mistress said so. Sh... She said I was bad to everyone, bad to you,” Sherlock stole a look at John's face then buried his head under the duvet.

“Sherlock, look at me.” John hated himself for it but he directed it as an order.

Sherlock's head appeared again. “I'm sorry, sir.”

The doctor sighed. “Everything Molly said to you. I want you to forget it.”

At the detective's wide eyed look, John continued, “I'd tear every one of her words out of your head if I could. You're bloody wonderful, how else could I love you?”

Sherlock didn't know what to do, where to look.

“Hey, Sherlock,” the detective looked up at the DI who was stood at the door. Suddenly a meerkat came flying through the air.

“Mozilla!” He snatched it from his flight and wrapped his arms around it, even his bad one got a squeeze.

Greg picked up the skull and carried it over to set it on the bed side table. “Hey, Sherlock. What's this guy's name, anyway? I always meant to ask.”

Sherlock didn't respond, though, he was too busy whispering to his stuffed meerkat toy.

He tapped on John's arm. “Mycie bought him for me.”

The doctor almost… grinned.

“Mozilla's hungry,” Sherlock decided suddenly.

“And what does Mozilla want?” John asked.

“Waffles,” came the immediate reply. He beckoned the doctor near. “But only if we eat them with him.”

John smiled, he looked over at Mycroft and winked.

“Hey!” He yelled.

One of the guards on the door poked their head in.

“Waffles. Lots of waffles.”

“John, sir,” Sherlock said shyly, “Mozilla wants to tell you something.”

“What's that, Babe?”

“Mozilla loves you. He told me so. He thinks you're very brave.”

“Well tell Mozilla that I love him too. And whatever it takes however long it takes we will fix his best friend.”

Sherlock stared at his stuffed meerkat for a moment. “Truth?”

“You know I would never lie to you or Mozilla.”

The broken detective nodded. “Truth, then.” His eyes slid to the side where he saw Lestrade. “Tell Gavin, the skull's name is Gregory.” He buried his face in Mozilla and giggled.

The DI smiled. He placed the skull on Sherlock's lap.

“Waffles.”

“They're coming, 'Lock,” Mycroft said with a soft smile.

“Waffles.”

Part of John wanted to weep, but the rest was just relieved that Sherlock wasn't acting so fearful at the moment. “Can I sit on the bed?”

Sherlock smiled shyly. “John can lay with me and Mozilla on the bed. It will be better than the... the...”

The doctor knew what he was trying to say: the cages. “Yes, babe. It will be better. Budge up and mind your arm.”

The pair looked up at a clatter. Mycroft was routing through the boxes that had been delivered from Baker Street. He was pulling stuff out and anything that might interest his baby brother he was throwing it on the bed.

Mycroft held up his brother's Microscope and looked for a place to set it.

In a very Sherlockian tone of voice, the detective barked, “Be careful with my microscope, Mycroft!” He immediately went pale, whimpered and shrank back into the bedding, hiding his face against John's side.

John pulled his face away and made him look at Mycroft.

The older man was grinning broadly.

“What would you do if I would drop it, 'Lock?”

“Mozilla would bite you.”

“Then I shall exercise utmost caution.” Mycroft carefully set the microscope on a table. “There, safe and sound.” He turned and sketched a bow to his brother.

Sherlock held up Mozilla. “Mozilla thinks Gavin should kiss you for being such a good brother.”

John hadn't taken his eyes off of Sherlock for the last few minutes and it was easy to tell just how childlike he really was. The way he spoke, using Mozilla, was exactly like a little boy would do.

Greg threw up his arms. “Who am I to argue with Mozilla?” He grabbed Mycroft and snogged him thoroughly, much to the detective's delight. He chuckled until there was a knock at the door then he froze. He used his good arm and to hide behind his bed sheet.

“It's alright, 'Lock,” John said from the door. “It's only waffles.”

Slowly, Sherlock lowered the bedsheet and peered towards the door. Spying the waffles, he let the sheet drop and hugged Mozilla. He bounced on the bed, jarring his arm and he hissed out in pain.

“Don't be a muppet,” Mycroft said lightly. He realised too late what effect that could have on him but Sherlock just smiled.

“Mozilla is the muppet, isn't that right John?”

“I don't know. I think Mycroft is the muppet. Greg, what do you think?”

The DI held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “Oh no, I'm not being drawn into this.”

Sherlock watched him almost seriously. “If you don't agree, that means you're a muppet too.”

“Ah…” that put the DI in a tricky situation. He glanced at Mycroft who had a small encouraging smile on his face. “In that case, he's definitely a muppet.”

“Good, because Mozilla wants the muppet to feed him his waffle.” Sherlock looked very pleased at the idea.

Before Mycroft could adjust to the change in conversation Mozilla was flying through the air and onto his lap.

John brought in the trolley with waffles on top, as well as the waffles, there was pancakes, different fruits and chocolate sauce.

He rolled the trolley right up to the edge of the bed. Sherlock scooted over and, as soon as a plate had been put in front of him, began making a face on his waffle with strawberries and chocolate sauce.

The childlike behaviour suddenly hit John like a punch in the gut. It felt like all the air had been forced from his lungs and he got light headed.

He fell back in his chair, Sherlock didn't seem to notice; too busy with his waffles.

Mycroft did notice as did the DI. They both shared a glance and sighed but neither of the men spoke.

After a few minutes, John pulled himself together. He promised himself that this was just the first step in Sherlock's recovery. He stood and looked at the happy faced waffles. “These look too good to eat.”

The detective shook his head once. “Waffles are always edible, sir.”

“John.”

“Sorry, John.”

The doctor sat next to Sherlock as the detective started cutting up a waffle. He stabbed a piece with a fork and held it up for John to eat.

“You don't have to feed me, Sherlock.”

“I want to,” he said with a pout.

John raised his hand and twisted Sherlock's wrist around so the fork was facing the younger man's mouth.

“You eat. You need to get big and strong.”

“You do, too.”

“You eat, then I eat. It'll be like a game.”

Sherlock's face lit up and he snapped his head forward to take the proffered bite. After he ate it, he stabbed another piece and held it up. “Your turn.”

The doctor sighed but took it.

Mycroft could see how exhausted John was.

“'Lock, why don't we play the game?”

“But Mozilla...”

Greg took the old stuffed toy. “I'll feed him. He's tired of the muppet.”

Sherlock grinned and nodded at his brother. John gratefully relinquished his place and moved to the other side of the bed where he lay, facing towards the wall.

Sherlock frowned at him until Mycroft managed to distract him.

“It's your go, 'Lock,” he said softly. He couldn't help the thought that he really did need to have his brother sectioned…

Mycroft filed the thought away as a last resort. If he did do that, it would destroy John and, truth be told, maybe himself. He looked up, feeling eyes on him. Greg gave him a soft, understanding look.

Sherlock leant over to whisper to him.

“Why is John upset?” He asked.

“He isn't.”

“Then why is he crying?”

Glancing ever so briefly over his shoulder, Mycroft stabbed another piece of the waffle. “Because he's very, very tired, 'Lock. Maybe the most tired he's ever been.”

“Then you and Gavin should go,” Sherlock whispered. “Turn off the lights. I'll make sure he gets some sleep. He sleeps well if I'm with him, better than when Mistress...” His voice trailed off. “Please, turn off the lights,” Sherlock repeated.

“We're not going anywhere, 'Lock, but we can dim the lights.” He nodded at the DI and Greg fiddled with the light switch.

As the room got darker Mycroft still managed to feed his little brother. After a few more bites, though, Sherlock held out his hand for Mozilla. Stuffed toy in hand, he turned and laid on the bed, as close to John as he could get. “You can rest now. Mycroft promised she won't come back. Greg promised. Even you said it.” He rested his head on the doctor's shoulder. “You can rest.”

In the semi-gloom, tears continued to roll down John's face.


	11. Chapter 11

It had taken a long time for John to fall asleep the night before, but when he awoke, he was the only one in the bed, he glanced at the clock for it to tell him he'd been asleep for over 18 hours.

He immediately panicked, looking for Sherlock only to spot him in the corner. He and the two other men were sat with a pack of cards. Sherlock had put his set onto Mozilla's lap. They seemed to just be playing snap.

If it had been anyone else sitting there, any child with a plush toy, it would have made a pretty picture. Instead, it was an immediate reminder of how messed up things were. John put on his best smile and joined the trio. “I must have been more tired than I thought.” He leaned over and kissed Sherlock's curls.

“Mozilla has got us more waffles,” Sherlock whispered, just as there was a knock on the door. Mycroft didn't let anyone in he just pulled the tray in himself.

“Here we go, 'Lock, with the extra strawberries for John and the extra blueberries that you wanted.”

The detective frowned. “That Mozilla wanted.”

The older brother smiled sadly. “Of course.”

“Snap!” Said Greg.

Sherlock's bottom lip came out, but it didn't look real, it looked like the old Sherlock pout.

“That's no fair, Mycie was tricking me.”

The DI raised an eyebrow. “Come on then, squirt, let's try again.” He spun his card over.

John watched, seeing Sherlock's eyes flickering over the backs of Greg's cards. It almost looked as if he were observing, taking in facts. “What do you see, 'Lock?”

“I see Mr. Gavin cheating.”

Mycroft burst out laughing. “Gregory wouldn't do that.”

“He would,” the detective reached over the table and pulled out a bundle of cards that were a little apart from the rest. They were pairs. “When he sees I'm not paying attention he puts these two down and then all I see is the pair.”

It was ridiculous how happy such a simple observation made John feel. He pulled up an empty chair and wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist. “That was amazing. I love you.” He kissed a blushing detective on the cheek. “That's the kind of thing you do, you notice things.”

Sherlock froze, as if realising what he had done for the first time. He dropped his stuffed meerkat and scuffled across the room until he ended up in the corner. It happened so quickly the other three couldn't stop him.

“I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry, sir.”

It was like he was stuck on repeat as John ran with whatever energy he managed to summon and collapse to his knees beside him.

“Sorry? Sherlock, what are you sorry for?”

“Seeing, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I know I'm not supposed to see anymore, sir.”

John was mightily confused.

“John?” Mycroft questioned, joining them with the DI but much slower, presenting much more caution.

“I don't know what he's going on about, she must have been telling him it was wrong when I wasn't around.”

He knelt by Sherlock's side. “There's nothing wrong with you seeing things. Observing and deducing are big parts of what makes you, you. And I love you, every single part. When you... see things, it makes me immeasurably happy. Forget what that bitch said to you.” His left hand started to clench into a fist, but he forced it to stay open. “You listen to me, now. And Mycroft and Greg. If you do something that she said was wrong, ask one of us. We'll tell you if she lied.”

“But how can she lie, sir? She's Mistress. She's not dead, sir, so we're still hers. I only shot her in the leg. I know I should have shot to kill, but there were men with guns and you were there and I didn't want you to get hurt and then Myc came in and…” he broke off on a choke and turned into the wall, sobbing.

Nothing they could say would quiet him. John hesitated to drug an addict, but he thought it might be necessary. He looked at Mycroft and nodded. The elder Holmes pulled a bottle from his pocket and poured a tablet into his palm. He passed it to John.

“Open up, babe,” the doctor ordered. When Sherlock complied, he slipped the tablet under the other man's tongue, then he held him, kneeling as they were. After a bit, the sobbing and shaking subsided. Sherlock wasn't knocked out, in fact, he was semi functional, just relaxed as if after one too many drinks. He may have been semi-functional, but he wasn't moving. At least he'd given up on the self-reminder.

John loathed to put him to bed when he'd wanted to eat so he glanced at Greg and inclined his head.

The DI nodded and when they were sure Sherlock wasn't going to panic in the greying-haired man's grip John let carry him back over to the cushioned chair across the room. There was no way the doctor had the strength to carry him, not now the adrenaline had worn off completely and his shoulder was aching something fierce.

Mycroft's eyes were on his brother, but as soon as Greg set his burden down, he glanced at John.

“Hey, mate. You're not looking too good. It's your shoulder, I can tell. Most of this fucked up mess is beyond our control, but you don't have to hurt. Take something for the pain,” he ordered. “It'll help you do what needs to be done.”

“I've just slept 18 hours straight, Greg. I don't need more sleep.”

The DI raised an eyebrow. “You could sleep for a week, don't lie.”

He sighed and glanced at Sherlock, the detective was just staring at his stuffed toy on the floor, not moving.

“I'll take half.” John matched his actions to his words. He didn't care how knackered he was, he wouldn't sleep while Sherlock was like this.

Mycroft sank down onto the edge of a chair and, much like his brother, stared. If only he could find the answers in the pattern of the floor.

It was a while, but eventually John felt his shoulder and everywhere else that could ache ease. So much for Molly not hurting it because of the law.

As soon as he felt as normal as he could get he crouched down and scooped up Sherlock's toy.

He started to pull a chair to Sherlock's side, but the DI did it for him. He sat in it gratefully and pulled Sherlock's head down to his shoulder. “It's alright, 'Lock. It's gonna be alright.” He let his eyes fall shut and just let himself rest.

Sherlock apparently seemed content to just stay there. Unmoving.

Mycroft wiped his eyes. He needed to get out of this room, but he knew his little brother would go crazy if he did.

“'Lock, here we go,” he settled himself on the other side of the doctor with a plate of waffles on his lap, he moved the plate to the table as a very sleepy sloth-like Sherlock clambered on to his lap, Mozilla gripped tightly in his good hand. He smiled over at Greg as he cut up the waffles for him, seeing as one arm was preoccupied trying to keep Sherlock upright.

“Love you, Mycie,” Sherlock whispered, as he rested his head on his shoulder.

“And I love you, little brother. I'm so glad I'm here now. You're here, with me and Gregory and John.”

“Missed you,” he whispered.

“Yes, 'Lock, I know,” he skewered a lump of waffle with a few blueberries and raised it to his brother's mouth. Sherlock chomped on it happily, if a little dopily.

Greg felt useless at the moment. He desperately needed something to do. Mycroft was taking care of Sherlock. That left John for the DI to see to. “John, you need to eat something, too,” Greg urged.

The doctor blinked and looked at the table. It seemed a world away. He just shook his head, not feeling up to the challenge.

The older man took one glance at the brothers and collapsed in a chair next to him. He reached over, grabbed John's shirt and pulled him onto his lap.

“What do you think, Sherlock?” Greg asked. “Shall I feed him too?”

Dopily, the youngest of the four looked over and smiled. “John will like it.”

That got a response from the doctor. “No John won't.” But it was said without conviction and he even took the bite that Greg offered him. He smiled at Sherlock to be certain that he hadn't upset the younger man with his words.

“See, Gavin,” Sherlock smiled lazily, “I told you he would like it.”

Mycroft watched the interaction fondly, grabbing a handful of blueberries for his brother.

Sherlock used Mozilla's hands to pick them up and pop them in his mouth and then Mycroft's alternatively.

The detective smiled. This was easy. This was safe. He could do this and John wouldn't get hurt for it. What did it matter if there was a voice screaming inside his head that this was wrong?

“Raspberries!” He suddenly demanded after another chunk of waffle.

“There's not any here, 'Lock.”

“Please,” he pleaded. “Mozilla will give you a cuddle.”

The older brother chuckled softly and grabbed his radio.

“Four teas and raspberries.” As he placed it back down a piece of waffle was being held in the air by Sherlock. Mycroft allowed his lips to smile as he took it.

By the time the raspberries arrived, Sherlock had rested his head on Mycroft's shoulder. He was playing with his brother's tie. “Mozilla says you stink, Myc. You've been wearing the same clothes forever and I don't like this tie.”

“Well, baby brother, I can't do much about that unless you let me leave the room for a bit,” he said gently.

“No!”

“There we go then.”

“But I could come with you?”

“Just the two of us?”

“John's tired,” he whispered. “He doesn't need me here.”

John went to protest but Greg stopped him, whispering, “If he's willing, you can have a break. You won't be without him long.”

“Bath Mycie?”

The government official glanced at Greg. “Is that weird?”

The DI raised an eyebrow. “Are you getting into the bathtub with him, Sherlock?”

The detective made a face. “Mozilla says that's disgusting. I'll sit on the toilet and we can talk while he gets de-stunk.”

“Then, no, it's not too weird in this case, Myc. Go get a bath. Your brother - I mean Mozilla is right, you stink.”

He poked his tongue out.

“Sherlock, you'll have to stand a moment. As dopey as you are.”

He set his brother upright.

When he stood, he scooped him up again. “Come on then.”

Greg opened the door to the loo for them. “You might want to call for fresh clothes. We thought to take care of John and Sherlock, but…”

Mycroft carefully sat his brother down on the toilet after knocking the lid down with his knee. “We've been focused entirely on them, you're correct. I'll have some things brought over for us.”

“Where do you sleep, Myc?” Sherlock asked.

“We haven't been really,” he responded quietly.

He knew if he stood to leave Sherlock wouldn't be impressed so he glanced at Greg. “Could you deal with the new clothes?”

The DI smiled. “Sure.”

The younger Holmes had drawn his knees up to his chest and had rested his chin on them. “Everyone needs to sleep sometime. You need to sleep after you get clean.” He still had Mozilla clutched in one hand and he looked like if he stayed still for very long, he'd be the one asleep.

Mycroft's thoughts weren't wrong. By the time he had washed himself, Sherlock had fallen asleep against the wall, still clutching Mozilla but loosely now. He actually seemed quite comfy. Peaceful even, it was no doubt because of the drugs.

He put his old clothes back on after drying himself off, then picked up his brother and carried him back to the other room, tucking him back into bed. Turning to Greg, he suggested, “It would be a good chance for you to get clean as well. I think he'll be out for a while.”

He saw John in the chair, he was asleep too.

“He's only been awake for about an hour,” Greg said.

“You said it earlier. He could probably sleep for a week. They both could.” He looked around. “I'll get another bed put in here, it won't be quite as big as theirs unless we move rooms with them.”

Greg shook his head. “Let's not move Sherlock again. He needs stability.”

“I quite agree. Thank you, Gregory.” He looked at his sleeping brother. “How long do we let this go on? We can't all four live in this room forever.”

Greg gave him a hug. “Give it a few days. Let the dust settle. We can think about that kind of thing then.” He shrugged. “Maybe things will improve.”

“What, on their own?”

“He looked earlier, Myc, he didn't just look, he saw. He observed. He may have had a bad reaction, but what says he'll be like that the next time he does it? We just reverse whatever that psycho did to him. It may take a while, but he needs to know you're here. We're here. And so does John, maybe even more so.”

“You're correct, of course. If I feel this wrung out after so little time, how must John feel? He had to watch this happen to my brother.” Mycroft paced a few steps... “I can't imagine what it must have been like. At least he shouldn't have any nightmares right now, the medication he took interferes with normal sleep patterns. He'll be sleeping far too deeply for that.”

“I think nightmares are only one of the problems we're going to need to deal with. Anyway, our clothes should be with us within an hour. I'm going to go and bathe why don't you sort our bed out?”

“Help me get John next to my brother first.”

The DI nodded and together they scooped him up and laid him beside Sherlock.

The pair immediately recognised each other's presence, even in sleep and they curled around one another.

“Well, that might be the one good thing that comes from this.” Greg smiled at them fondly. “I don't think it'll change even when we get our old Sherlock back.” Greg gave his boyfriend another quick hug before heading to the bathroom. “Don't get all broody before I get back,” he shot out before he closed the door.

Mycroft stuck the knuckles of his thumbs into his eyes, rubbing hard enough until he saw stars.

He grabbed one of the guard’s attention at the door and told him to pass on the message about the bed.

When Greg came out of the bathroom, he felt far less grimy. He'd feel better when he had clean clothes. Hearing a familiar snoring sound, he smiled to see Mycroft sat in the cushioned chair, asleep. Well, the DI felt up to playing guardian over the trio. He opened the door and called for strong, black coffee. He had a feeling he would need it.


	12. Chapter 12

Four days later and the improvements both Sherlock and John had made were massive. Sherlock now left the room without John, even when John was awake. Mycroft and Greg had also moved into their own room, albeit right next door, with a small arch separating the two couples. The detective still carried Mozilla around with him everywhere he went, but he wasn't using the plush toy to speak for him anymore. At the moment, Sherlock was in a particularly playful mood. He'd climbed on John's lap and had his good arm around his neck. “I want to hear you say it again, John.”

“I love you,” the doctor obliged.

“Again.”

“I love you.”

Sherlock grinned and tucked his head into the crook of John's neck. “I want to play a game.”

“A game like what?”

“A game like, when can I get the sling off?”

“When you're healed, babe,” John said softly.

“Lock,” Mycroft called from the table in the corner.

Just because the other couple had their own room now didn't mean that they stayed in it unless they were sleeping.

“What Mycie?”

“I got you your favourite cereal from when you were little. Remember the little pillows?”

Sherlock's eyes lit up and he climbed off John's lap. Before he crossed to the table, he tucked Mozilla into the bed. “He's been very tired lately. I think he needs to get some rest. I'll leave him alone today.”

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up, but other than that, he gave no outward sign of surprise. That was just how Sherlock had weaned himself off Mozilla as a child. His hopes were dashed, however, when rather than sit in the chair between him and Greg, or even the one across the table he climbed onto his big brother's lap.

John chuckled as he joined them. It was nice seeing how far Sherlock had come, but it was also good to know that he still fell back on the instinct that Mycroft wasn't there to be a pain in the arse.

Opening his mouth like a baby bird, Sherlock waited to be fed. He'd eaten so much in the last few days that his clothes were starting to fit him again. Mycroft started feeding his brother the cereal. As he fed him, he asked, “What do you want to do today, 'Lock?”

“I want my duck.”

Mycroft smiled. “You're in luck then.” The next spoonful went in like an aeroplane. “Because I believe you have a visitor waiting outside by the pond. A visitor you may or may not be able to take home in the future. Once I've figured out how I can let you keep a duck in Baker Street that is.” Sherlock nearly flew off his lap for the door, but Mycroft managed to keep a hold of him. “Hey, not yet, little brother. I want you to finish the rest of this up first.”

With a scuff of a shoe against the floor, Sherlock pouted at his brother. “Please, Mycie? I want to see my duck.”

“Just a few more bites.” Mycroft held up the spoon and his brother grudgingly ate. The moment the cereal was gone, though, his lap was empty. Sherlock didn't go straight out the door, however, he plucked Mozilla from his bed and then was gone.

John groaned and got to his feet. “Maybe the fact he likes leaving the room now is a bad thing?” He asked almost sarcastically, even so he gave chase after his detective. It didn't take long to catch him up, he still wasn't doing well on the speed front. So much so that Mycroft and Greg caught them up no problem.

On his knees, Sherlock was trying to coax the duck near. He wasn't having any trouble as one of the guards had given him a bag of bread when he entered the private park. John was worried he would try to grab the duck and get himself bitten... billed?

“Don't worry,” Mycroft seemed to read the doctor's mind, “It’s a mild mannered duck.” He and John looked at each other, then the tension of the last few days broke and they started laughing.

It seemed to be far too quick for John's liking between the time they had reached the pond to the time Sherlock had he duck in his grasp. He ditched the sling before John could argue and fell to the side. He then rolled on his back, whimpering slightly as he hugged the duck to his chest, ignoring the pain.

The doctor ran over and knelt by Sherlock. “Come on, babe, let the duck go.” The younger man shook his head. “You're going to hurt your arm. It doesn't feel good, does it?”

“Don't care.” Sherlock hugged the duck tighter and it quacked.

It didn't seem to want to leave, it just wasn't happy being so tightly restricted.

“'Lock, you don't want to hurt him, do you?” John tried.

Sherlock scowled, and then pointed at Mozilla on the floor beside Mycroft.

“If you can't catch one you can hug Mozilla.” John scooped up the toy and held it as he sat next to Sherlock. That act seemed to do the trick. The detective loosened his grip on the duck a bit and it seemed much happier. “Wouldn't you like to keep feeding him?” John asked. “He looks like a hungry duck.

“All ducks are always hungry.” He held a little piece of bread near him and he snatched it, not roughly but not gently either, from between his fingers.

Mycroft wandered over to join them. “He has a point John. Have you ever found a not-hungry duck?”

The doctor shrugged. “What are we going to do with it?”

Sherlock was quite happy ignoring the other men as he stroked his duck with his good hand, he knew if the duck really wanted to get away, the arm holding it wasn't strong enough to stop him or her.

“The duck needs a name, yeah?” Greg had joined the other three men. “We can't just keep calling it ‘the duck’.”

“Is it a boy or a girl?” John asked.

The British Government watched his brother with the duck. “It's a boy.”

“Ördek.”

Both Greg and John looked incredibly confused at Sherlock.

“That's Turkish, Sherlock,” Mycroft responded, crouching down beside him, “when did you learn that?”

The detective shrugged. “It means duck.”

He let the duck go and offered it some more bread. Ördek ate it greedily. “Mycie, you said he could go to Baker Street. I want to go to Baker Street. It's boring here.”

Everyone froze.

“I said he might be able to go to Baker Street,” Mycroft corrected as he looked to the other two men for their reactions. They were hard to gauge. John seemed shocked, but Greg seemed to just take it in his stride. “Um… I'm not sure about Baker Street, just yet, little brother.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Sherlock looked up at him with watery eyes. “You're going to keep me here forever, just like Mistress kept me in her cage.” Sherlock ditched the duck and snatched up Mozilla from John's grip. He struggled to his feet and stormed off, but not towards the building but in the other direction.

Knowing that Sherlock couldn't actually get out of the park didn't help Mycroft's nerves.

John stood and went after the distraught detective. He was furious, but not with Mycroft, with the entire situation. He wouldn't have said anything different himself.

John almost missed Sherlock and would have walked right by him, had the bush not given a shudder at the precise moment he approached. He crouched down and saw Sherlock hidden amongst the many branches. “Sherlock?” He called. “Come on out.”

“No, sir,” he whispered, wrapping his arms tightly around Mozilla still in his grip.

“Please, 'Lock.”

When he knew Sherlock wasn't going to listen and knew he couldn't get in the small gap either, he sighed, he did not want to do this. “Sherlock come out of the bush, right now. That's an order.”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock replied and crawled out of the bush. He knelt up in front of him, still clutching Mozilla. There were leaves and twigs caught in his curls.

“You don't have to kneel, 'Lock.” John helped him to his feet. “I'm sorry I had to do that.”

Mycroft caught them up just as John was pulling errant twigs free. Without pausing to think he scooped his baby brother up and with a glance at the doctor began carrying him back towards the facility. Sherlock squirmed in his brother's arms. “I want to go home now! Mozilla wants to go home. Ördek wants to go home. We're bored. Bored!” His last shout sounded like the Sherlock of old.

The DI caught them up. “What if I get hold of a few cold cases for you, mate? John, would do you think to that?”

Sherlock's eyes widened on sight of John. “He doesn't have to help us. Do you, sir?” The younger man asked him.

The doctor swallowed. “I don't have to help if you don't want me to, babe, but I would like to. It's fun doing things with you.”

“But Mistress-”

“Isn't here. And even if she were, she has no power over either of us.” John reached out and stroked Sherlock's cheek. “Go ahead and have some fun. And please, please, please don't call me that anymore.”

“Ördek!” Sherlock wriggled as they were passing the lake, Mycroft sighed and set him on his feet.

Greg was already on his phone talking to Sally's replacement. He instructed the officer to pull together at least six cold case files and to have them ready for pickup within the hour. He hung up, knowing Mycroft would arrange for Anthea to make the pickup. Except Mycroft didn't seem to let Sherlock get a chance to run off again. He just pressed his phone into his boyfriend's hand. “Can you sort it, Gregory? Please.”

Mycroft led his brother over to a table that was being set for lunch. He breathed a sigh of relief. He had ordered the special two foot long spaghetti and it was certain to be a distraction for this younger seeming version of Sherlock. He remembered how his brother used to slurp up one long piece at a time.

Apparently, so did Sherlock as he spotted the spaghetti and dropped Mozilla on the bench beside him. “Sir,” he held his hand out for John. Then he spotted the Parmesan cheese grater and picked it up. He held it over his mouth and started grating cheese directly into it.

Mycroft closed his eyes. “Really, Sherlock?”

The detective pouted. “Mozilla likes it.” He grated a bit more to eat himself and then he started doing it over the stuffed meerkat. After a moment, he frowned at his toy, then picked it up and shook it off. “Mozilla doesn't have dandruff,” he declared seriously.

John held out his hand for the grater. “I want some too.”

“Uh-uh,” he patted his lap.

John wasn't so sure, but Sherlock almost scowled at him until he obeyed and sunk to the younger man's lap. He didn't rest all his weight on him and didn't plan to wait there long. Sherlock raised the grater and did the same to John as he had to Mozilla.

“Hey, you two love birds,” Greg interrupted. “Myc and I are going to want some of that.”

There were so many things John wanted to say, but all of them, he knew from experience, would likely have negative repercussions. “Come on, 'Lock,” his older brother passed him a plate full of spaghetti. “You need to eat more than cheese.”

Sherlock let John up and started in on his food, slurping the spaghetti just as Mycroft had anticipated.

The doctor breathed easier as he sat next to the detective. It was so unsettling when Sherlock suddenly did something that was adult interspersed amongst the child like behaviour. He didn't know which he preferred.

“You've got to eat too, sir… John.”

“Of course, babe, just appreciating the moment,” his gaze met with Mycroft's.

Greg wound an unbelievable amount of pasta around his fork and held it up for Sherlock to see. “Can you beat this, Sherlock?”

The next several minutes passed with the detective trying to get every spaghetti noodle wrapped around his fork at once. He failed miserably. “It's no fair, Mycie. You never showed me how to do that!”

“What did he show you to do?” John asked.

Sherlock picked up one length of spaghetti and began to slurp it up. “Seriously?!” John was incredulous. “You learned that from Mycroft?”

“We were very young at the time,” the elder Holmes said defensively.

“Do it, Mycie!” Sherlock bounced in his chair, excited.

One of the noodles whipped around and painted Mycroft’s face with sauce. All three of the other men laughed outright. Greg had the presence of mind to snap a photo. “It looks good on you, babe.” The DI leaned forward and licked a bit of the sauce off. “I was right. It is good.”

Mycroft screwed his eyes shut. “Sherlock, stop them laughing at me.” He was looking at the DI but he was pointing at John.

“No, Mycie, it's funny.” Sherlock giggled when his brother stuck his tongue out at him. “Mycie, you don't do things like that. It's my job to be the brat.” He seemed to be struck by his own words and frowned, his nose wrinkling between his eyes.

John cupped his cheek immediately. “Hey, hey, 'Lock, look at me.” It had been worded like an order so Sherlock looked. “You can be as bratty or as un-bratty as you like.”

“But isn't me being bratty the same as me being bad? Mistress said so.”

“No, babe, it's just you being you.” John smiled at him when he pulled back, “You can never be bad. Never ever.”

Sherlock smiled at him, grimacing at the pain in his arm.

John glanced at Mycroft. “Can you have another sling brought out for him?” He held Sherlock's arm for him in a gentle grip. “Be careful. Don't hurt my arm.” John gave it a slight squeeze.

“But it's my arm,” Sherlock said puzzled.

“I love you, so that makes it my arm too.”

Sherlock used his other hand to grab John's. “Does that mean this is my arm?”

The doctor smiled. “Yes, babe.”

“Oi, John, stop distracting him,” Greg interrupted.

“He's only eaten 3 pieces of spaghetti,” Mycroft added.

The doctor looked sheepish. “Sorry. It's normally my job to get him to eat. I don't know what I was thinking.”

“Oh, I think you got lost in the moment, mate.” Greg tossed him a roll, then one for Sherlock. “Eat.”

The detective poked his tongue out at the two men sat on the other side of the table John wedged the roll between his teeth, pushing his tongue back in. Pouting, the younger man picked Mozilla up and gave him a hug. But he ate the roll, then went back to eating the spaghetti. His eyes roved over every inch of the private park he could see. In warmer weather, there should be bees. “I didn't see any beehives, Mycie.”

“That's because there aren't any,” his brother explained.

“Why not?” He complained.

“Because this place doesn't need them.” He took a deep breath. “I'm sure by the time summer rolls around you'll be back at Baker Street with John and Ördek.”

Of course, that wasn't good enough for Sherlock. “I want to go home now! I don't want to wait.”

Mycroft could have kicked himself. The other two men would have been glad to help him. “'Lock, I don't think it's a good idea. Not yet.”

“What's wrong with being here?” John asked softly, as he was trying to fight the younger man into the newly arrived sling.

“It's boring.”

“It's just as boring as Baker Street, babe.”

“I get to shoot the walls at Baker Street.”

“No you do not,” John corrected him.

“I get body parts to experiment on at Baker Street.”

“Do you want to do that, babe? You haven't mentioned experiments.”

“I want to go home!”

“You can experiment here, 'Lock,” Mycroft offered. He indicated the few arm guards that tailed them wherever they went. “They're here for you, for us. You can do what you want. There's plenty of spare rooms, we could set you up a mini lab.”

The detective shoved his plate away and pulled his knees up to his chest. “I want to go home. Home. Not here. Not a baby lab. Home. My things. I'm not a baby.” He didn't look at Mozilla or John. He glared at his brother.

“Oh, 'Lock,” Mycroft reached over, but the younger brother ducked out of the path of his hand.

“Why don't we build up to it? We could try a few days with some things we can have Barts lab drop off for you. You can have some of the cases Gregory has got hold of and then we'll see how things go.”

Sherlock suddenly sobbed. “I'm sorry, Myc, I'm sorry,” he wrapped his good arm around Mozilla and pulled him tight towards him.

With one look at a worried John, Mycroft stood up, walked around the bench and picked his little brother up. “I know you want to go home, baby brother. Let's give it a few more days and maybe we can visit. I'm certain Mrs. Hudson would like to see you.” He tried to think how best to bribe his brother. “We could even-”

“Sir!” A heavily armed guard burst into their sight. “The Hooper woman has escaped.”


	13. Chapter 13

Molly dragged Sherlock across the basement floor by his curls. She was small, but strong. At the bench, she let him go. “Get on it, now!” she shouted. When he didn't move fast enough to satisfy her, she kicked him in the ribs. It wasn't the first time she had done so and he bore the bruises to prove it.

“Now!”

Groggily, the detective dragged himself onto the bench.

“On your back!” She yelled.

He spun over, groaning as he jolted his already painful ribs. She pulled his arms down and buckled them to the cuffs sat on the sides of the bench, forcing his shoulders to bare a lot of stress.

“Mistress, I'm sorry, please…”

“Shut it!” She hissed.

Molly walked from the room and returned, dragging John by the scruff of the neck, his hands cuffed tightly in front of him. The doctor winced when she threw him down, his knees hitting the floor hard. “I left him alone with you for 15 minutes, Watson. 15 minutes!” Molly paced the floor with manic energy. “I didn't tell you to feed him or coddle him. Just watch the freak and keep him in his place and you couldn't even manage that!”

John started to protest, “Miss, I-”

She slapped him.

“He did nothing wrong. He was with me for the whole 15 minutes.” There was blood at the doctor’s lip.

“That is not what DI Dimmock said,” Molly growled.

John opened his mouth, apparently to complain that Dimmock had been on their side. It seemed that he thought better of it – them having a friend in the police force was about as likely as them going back in time 6 months and preventing this from happening in the first place.

“Mistress, I'm sorry,” Sherlock tried again. “Please don't hurt Sir anymore. It was my fault. I don't know how to behave, Mistress.” He was looking to the side to avoid her gaze and didn't see the blow coming. The pain was unlike anything he had felt before and it blossomed out in lines of heat across his thighs. When he caught sight of her, she was wielding a bow… his bow. From his violin. He swallowed.

John tried again. “Miss, Dimmock lied, Sherlock was great. He's always great now, it's not like he has the ability to be anything else.”

“Don't lie to me!” Molly struck out randomly with the bow, hitting John across his upper arm.

The doctor swallowed down his cry of pain. “No, I'm not. You broke him. He's broken, broken.” This time he swallowed a sob.

Sherlock had been trying to watch John, but he realised that it wasn't his place. His head hit the bench again.

Molly's attention was back on the slave-detective. She yanked his trousers down and grabbed his cock in her fist. When she twisted it, he cried out. Mistress liked to hear him scream, so he didn't try to hold back.

“You think he's broken now. Wait until I'm finished with him.” She let go of him and brought the bow down across his hips, barely missing his cock.

Sherlock just let her do it - do what she liked, as hard as she liked. He also made whatever noises he knew would please her.

John, however, seemed unable to watch. “Miss, please. At least tell us how you escaped.”

She looked over her shoulder, frowning. “None of your business!” She snapped. She thrust a cock cage into his hand. “Put it on him. Now. Before I cut it off.”

Moving swiftly, John did as ordered. The moment he was done, Molly hit him with the bow again, this time across his shoulders. She hit him again and again until the bow snapped. John fell forward over Sherlock's stomach and lay there panting in pain.

“Right dogs!” She yelled. “Enough panting!” She pulled John back from Sherlock and forced him to his knees, uncuffing him. “Release him, but cuff him. Hands and feet. I'm going to make you some food.”

“Yes, miss,” John whispered, tear stains down his face.

When she was out of sight the doctor scrambled to his feet and cupped Sherlock's cheek. “We were free. I didn't mean to confuse you, 'Lock, didn't mean to make you think it was all over when it so clearly isn't. I'm so sorry.”

Sherlock's eyes had glazed over like he wasn't in the room.

“Let's get you untied, yeah, babe?”

“Yes, sir,” the detective responded, monotone.

John flinched, as though he thought Sherlock was blaming him - that he was thinking he'd lied to him about being safe and now Mycroft and Greg were dead and Molly was back in control.

John released the detective and manoeuvred him around. It was like moving a puppet. He got him onto his knees and cuffed him just as Molly had directed. Kneeling down in front of Sherlock, John hugged him. The detective shuddered in his arms. He appeared to be near to crying around about now, but seemed to be holding back. It was as if he did it would be all over - he'd break too. He clearly wasn't ready to leave Sherlock on his own like this, not yet.

Molly came down the stairs into the basement with a tray of food and tea. She set it on the table along with a vase of flowers. Humming, she picked up the plate and handed it to John. “Make sure he eats it all.”

The doctor ducked his head. “Yes, Miss.”

As she disappeared upstairs, she yelled back. “Don't stay up all night boys! I'll be down in a few hours to lock the cage. If you're not already in it, he'll be in the small one.”

“Yes, miss,” John repeated, more to himself than Molly.

“Come here, babe,” he held his hand out for Sherlock, but with the other man’s feet tied the way they were he wasn't moving anywhere in a hurry. John glanced at the stairs, the door was shut. Light was coming from somewhere, but he didn’t seem to be able to work out where. He unbuckled the cuffs from around Sherlock's ankles and helped him to stand. “Do you want to go in the cage now, babe? Get comfy?”

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock’s voice was monotone again and he walked over to it, crawling inside.

John stuffed all the blankets and pillows that had appeared from nowhere inside the cage and then took the tray in. “We can set up a little camp, 'Lock, how does that sound?”

Sherlock didn't respond, merely stared at the floor of the cage. John sighed and broke off a bit of the sandwich. He hand fed it to the detective, knowing he wouldn't eat it otherwise. “I want you to eat it, Sherlock. Please. That's an order.”

Sherlock moved at that. Those three words always got his attention, despite John clearly hating to use them, sometimes they were useful. As he began picking up his own pieces of sandwich, John climbed back out of the cage, gathering the detective's trousers and his Belstaff as well as one of his old jumpers. Sighing, he slipped into it and took Sherlock's clothes into the younger man. “Is the sandwich good, babe?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock tried to smile, but it was thin and weak.

John set about helping him back into his trousers, not buckling them up, it would make the cage far too uncomfortable. At least the hated woman had forgotten about the dreaded sounds this time round.

“Are you eating too, sir?” Sherlock asked softly, holding a piece of sandwich out.

John seemed unable to bear the look on Sherlock's face if he didn't accept it, so he did and smiled, “Thank you, 'Lock.” He began wrapping the blankets around them as he spoke, trying to keep the heat in.

Huddled in the blankets, John kept feeding Sherlock as he, himself, ate. He was completely exhausted, they both were, and desperately needed sleep. Finally, he set the empty tray far to the side and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock appeared to snuggle in, but it might have been an illusion. Even so, John wrapped his arms around the younger man, in a clear effort to offer whatever comfort he could, at least until the door opened and there were footsteps on the stairs.

Sherlock scrambled away, curling himself up in the corner of the cage. Mistress didn't like him touching John like that. He didn't hear the whine that he was making and wouldn't have cared if he had.

“Watson!” Molly barked.

John actually flinched.

“What have you done to him?”

“Nothing, miss,” he answered, while watching the cowering detective.

“Of course you have!” She softened her voice. “Just look at the poor dear. Why else would he be so afraid?” Molly opened the cage. “Out, Watson.” The moment he crawled through the cage door, she slammed it shut. “I'll show you what happens to anyone who hurts Sherlock.”

Sherlock watched with trepidation as John was hauled over to the bench and draped across it.

The doctor looked concerned, clearly hoping Sherlock wouldn't move too much, else Molly would be aware of the fact his feet were no longer chained.

“Shall we say 50 strokes with my crop? If you get through all of them without blubbering like a baby, I'll let you go back in the cage with my pet.”

Molly didn't hesitate, she brought the crop down hard on John's back. She fully intended to make him scream, not just cry. “I don't know why I still keep you around,” she said after 15 blows. “Quit upsetting my pet.” Molly hadn't quit striking him through her little speech.

“I'm sorry, miss,” he mumbled as the 25th strike landed.

John clearly heard whimpering from behind and just as clearly knew it had to be Sherlock. He obviously wanted this over. He obviously wanted the 50th stroke to land so he could go back in the cage with Sherlock. The blond turned his head and bit his lip in an effort to keep from crying out, blood spreading across his tongue.

Molly kept hitting him hard with her crop. If she couldn't make him scream, she could make him bleed.

“Mistress?” Sherlock suddenly interrupted. It was convenient it was after the 50th stroke.

“What?” She snapped.

His head was low as he replied. “May I go to the toilet, please?”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Molly tossed the crop to the side. “Don't you remember how it works, Sherlock? You can use the pan like a good pet.” She kicked out at John. “I don't know why you're being so lazy, just lying there. Get up.”

Tears streamed down Sherlock’s face as he straightened up. He looked at the 'pan' Molly mentioned. It wasn't. It was just their litter tray.

“Get back in the cage, you worthless shit!”

“Yes, miss. Thank you, miss,” John said quickly.

At the side of the cage, Molly shoved him in and locked it. The doctor fell on his fellow slave and immediately began apologising.

“Sorry, 'Lock, sorry.” John rolled off of the other man, landing on his battered back. He couldn't suppress his hiss of pain. The moment Sherlock moved to relieve himself, the doctor rolled onto his front and lay there, clearly too shattered to move anymore.

Molly laughed. “Sleep well, dogs,” with that she walked off up the stairs.

The second the pair of them were in the corner and closed their eyes it was like a new day sprung to life.

“Morning, boys!” Molly yelled.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” John whispered.

“No, sir, I don’t think so, sir.”

“Me neither.” John scrubbed at his eyes, but it didn't seem to make him feel any better.

Molly walked over and opened the cage. “Let's see how pretty your back looks, Watson. Sherlock, you go wait by the bench.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the detective crawled out and moved to the bench, his cock throbbing in pain from the night before, despite being sealed in metal.

“Cross, Watson. And face it.”

“Yes, miss,” John whispered. He straightened himself up in front of the cross and she inspected his back.

“Good. Very good. Maybe I'll ensure it stays like that, might knock some manners into you.”

“Yes, miss.”

John's back was bruised and covered in red crisscrossing stripes. Several of them were split open and crusted over with scabs. Without proper treatment, infection would surely set in soon, especially in the current conditions. Even Sherlock, in his current state of mind, could see that. He hesitated, afraid to speak and make things worse, but it was John, so he tried. “Mistress, please, may I-”

“May you, what, brat?”

Sherlock immediately faced away again, not looking at either of the people that were above him.

Molly paced over to the kneeling slave and yanked his head back by the curls. “What did you say?”

“Can I bathe him, Mistress? For you?”

Molly looked back at John over her shoulder. “He does stink.” She shoved Sherlock so he fell to the side. “Do it and clean yourself up as well. You reek of the doggy tray. When you're done, put him on the cross.”

Sherlock shivered, but nodded. “Yes, Mistress.”

John seemed to be trying to work out what Molly had to gain. Sherlock knew he thought it was another future attack on her brother, but the detective thought maybe she just enjoyed it.

Crawling, Sherlock went to John. He looked up at him with almost vacant eyes, his brief burst of daring having spent itself. “Sir, Mistress said I should bathe you.”

With obvious weariness, John nodded. “Alright, Sherlock.” He started towards the loo.

When they returned from the bathroom Molly had changed her mind. “Watson, tie him to the cross.”

“Miss-”

“Now, boy! Or pay the consequences.” John hesitated again, so Molly grabbed him by the neck and threw him to the ground. “The consequences being, I'll use my crop on him, but not the usual way. I'll take the handle and-”

The doctor scrambled to his feet. “I'm sorry. I'll do it, miss.”

“Good boy.”

John led the younger man, lifeless, across the room.

“Sorry, 'Lock,” he whispered. He'd been needing to say that far too much recently.

Sherlock didn't so much as whine. When he had been led to the cross, he stretched out in front of it and waited passively for the doctor to do as he had been bidden.

John's throat seemed to feel as though it would close on him at any moment. He picked up the rope from the floor and started tying Sherlock in place. When he was done, he took a step away and dropped to his knees, clearly not daring to look at either Molly or Sherlock. It was as though he couldn't bear to face Sherlock, he'd told him this was all over. He'd had his brother back and Greg. And now… now there was no one.

Molly practically danced over to her table of implements. She picked up a strange looking device and returned to stand in front of the cross. The thing in her hand had a glass electrode that glowed a violet colour. “Let me know if this stings,” she said as she held it near his abdomen, causing an arc of energy to shock him.

Sherlock bucked in his position, but he hardly made a sound.

John clearly couldn't watch, couldn't watch what he had let happen to his best friend. His boyfriend. The doctor laughed, but it came out as a sob. It was obvious that he thought he had lost his mind, thinking about such things at a time like this.

“Something funny, Watson?” Molly asked as she held the 'zapper' near the tip of the cage at Sherlock's cock.

That time the detective did cry out, but he bit his lip as soon as he could, keeping his noises inside.

“No, miss.”

“These wands can be used for branding.” Molly waved the wand around. “It only requires a different electrode.” She leaned in and whispered in Sherlock's ear, “I have it. I could decorate you and Watson however I like.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Sherlock whispered, through shallow breath.

Molly took a step back and stamped her foot. “I'm starting to regret breaking you, you were so much fun when you fought everything. Just like Watson is, although he is starting to get a bit annoying.”

That was when John clearly realised, Sherlock had said it once, long ago, fake being broken. Sherlock had taken it one step further, one step too far, but John obviously wouldn't. It was unmistakably his only option now, well, it was that or actually break along with his best friend.

“Miss, I-”

Molly brought the thing in her hand close to his shoulder and electricity arced to it, making him cry out in pain. She had to have the thing set to its highest limits. Gritting his teeth, John seemed to decide it was a good time to try a bit of 'broken' grovelling. “Miss, please. I'm sorry, miss. Please don't hurt us. I'll be good, miss.”

Molly straightened up, frowning down at him. She looked over at Sherlock, hanging limp in the rope securing him to the cross.

“Straighten up, boy! Don't slouch, I thought you were a Holmes.”

“Sorry, Mistress,” he croaked, doing as he was told. “I'm whatever you want me to be.”

“Well, I want you to be your detective self for a moment, look at Watson, what's his problem?”

John seemed to pray this wouldn't be the moment Sherlock started deducing things again.

The detective rolled his head to the side and looked at John in confusion. “I don't know, Mistress.”

The wand approached the tip of the cock cage Sherlock was wearing. The doctor cried out something that was clearly intentionally incoherent and bent himself double, covering his head. He obviously daren't look to see how his bit of acting had been received.

Molly frowned down at him once again.

“He's acting like you,” she said with such immature glee. She pushed her foot under John's head and used it to straighten himself up. “Go and cuff yourself to the punishment post.” It was almost a test.

The doctor moved to obey immediately, his shoulder seemed to ache from the intense zap, but he ignored it as he knelt beside the post in the floor and cuffed himself into the manacles hanging down the sides.

“I'll not punish you if you keep quiet.”

“Yes, miss.”

She threw the wand to the side and began to untie the rope holding the detective up.

“Come on, pretty boy,” Molly said, grabbing Sherlock by the cock and pulling him towards the table of implements. “Pick something for me to use on you. If I don't like your choice, I'll use it on Watson.”

It was more than the broken detective could manage. He fell to his knees and started crying.

“Boy?”

Sherlock was trembling with trepidation, muttering 'sorry' over and over.

Molly grabbed his curls and yanked his head upright. “Well?”

“It is not my choice to make decisions, Mistress. I'm sorry, Mistress.” Tears welled in his eyes. “I hate disappointing you, Mistress, but I know I would only disappoint you more with any choice a slave has to make.”

Molly stared at him for a while before letting his head go, it was the most he'd spoken in a long time, but it had come out fast and staggered and panicky.

“Pathetic.” Molly pointed towards the large cage. “Get in. I don't want to deal with you. You're boring.”

Sherlock scrambled towards the cage and climbed into it.

The woman shut the cage, locked it and scooped up Mozilla from where the toy lay on the floor.

John caught a glance at it, he clearly had no idea how Sherlock had managed to get it down here in the first place. The fire in the corner that had never been lit quickly had flames in abundance. Sherlock watched, more tears in his eyes as Mozilla was dropped inside the grating.

Making a motion as if to dust off her hands, Molly turned and enjoyed the effect her actions had produced. “Are you crying, Holmes? You are,” she said gleefully, “and over a stuffed toy. That's what happens to the things you care about. You would do well to remember it.”

Sherlock watched as Mozilla burnt into ash, trying not to sob.

“Yes, Mistress.”

John clearly wanted to rush to him, to comfort him. Even if he physically could, he obviously knew he couldn't. That would be what the old John would do, this John was broken. But what could the doctor do? Sherlock knew his friend would have to wait until two conditions occurred at the same moment. One, Sherlock had to be locked in the cage and two, John had to be free. When that happened, John would go for the kill. Sherlock would be safe from any consequences when it became clear he couldn't have participated in Molly's death. He wanted to yell at John, to tell him that he couldn’t do it.

Molly made sure there wasn't enough wood on the fire to last very long and then she began to let John go.

“Get in there and stop him crying, it's pathetic.”

Sherlock hadn't expected to happen so soon, but it did.

The hateful woman was about to unlock the cage door, John acted fast. He lunged for her without hesitation, not seeing the object she held in her hand - a heavy weight. His body crashed into hers and a brief struggle ensued. Had his body not been put through so much of late, it would have gone differently. As it was, the fight was over all too soon. Molly managed to bring the weight up and smash it into the thin bone at his temple with a sickening crack.

“John!” Sherlock cried out. But he was too late, the doctor fell dead to the floor.


	14. Chapter 14

“Sherlock, 'Lock, please, please wake up.”

Sherlock was thrashing around on the floor, not aware that he was jerking about, dislodging his sling.

Mycroft had lowered him down when he'd begun to thrash on their way inside. Greg had raced off to organise the recapture of Hooper.

John joined him on the floor, he cupped Sherlock's cheek, but couldn't seem to wake him either. “I haven't seen him have a nightmare like this before,” he was almost panicking but not quite.

“Lockie, please,” Mycroft pleaded. He didn't know what else to do, he took his younger brother's hands in his own. That stupid guard should not have told him like that. Just blurting it out while Sherlock was clearly in listening range. He should have known the reaction from the youngest Holmes wouldn't have been good.

The doctor looked around. “Water!” John ran and filled a cup of water from the table which still held the jug from earlier, then came back and, holding his breath, dumped it over Sherlock. The sleeping man woke with a scream on his lips.

“John!” Sherlock's eyes were wild and his chest heaved. “John, John, John...” He broke down into tears. He leant up and wrapped his arms around the doctor, even his bad one.

“'Lock? ‘Lock what is it?”

“You were dead… John… sir, dead. Mistress…”

“Shh, shh, shh. I'm right here. I'm not dead.” John hugged him back tightly. “I'm right here.”

Sherlock's breaths came in hard, sucking gasps. He couldn't get enough air and he couldn't quite believe that the doctor was alive.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft questioned cautiously.

He suddenly let go of John and launched himself at his older brother.

“You were dead too. Mistress killed you.”

He suddenly started looking around for Greg in a panic

“What?” John asked, reaching out to grab Sherlock gently by the arm.

“She killed him.” The detective scrambled towards the building, but Mycroft managed to catch him.

Just as John asked, “Who?” Mycroft understood.

“'Lock! Gregory is fine. He's not dead either.” The elder Holmes managed to wrap his arm around his brother and hold him tightly. Not ever wanting to let go.

Mycroft lifted him up into his arms only seconds before Sherlock burst out crying again.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft panicked, thinking he'd hurt him. It was just like he was as a child all over again. The day had been going so well…

“Mozilla,” he sobbed.

“John, do you see Mozilla anywhere?” Mycroft asked.

“Right here.”

John handed him the worn toy and the elder Holmes gave it to his brother. Sherlock clutched at it sobbing. “She burnt him.”

John didn't care that this had all been in Sherlock's head, he suddenly took off towards the building fast, running like he never had before.

“Damn,” Mycroft swore. He couldn't leave his brother to stop John. He'd have to let the guards do it. “Do not hurt Doctor Watson, but stop him!”

It took three guards to drag John to the ground. “Mycroft! Tell them to let me go. I'll kill her!”

Sherlock was sobbing in his brother's arms, his own arms tightly wrapped around Mozilla. He was pressing his nose into the soft fur of the stuffed meerkat, trying to ignore everything else that was going on around them.

“John! Doctor Watson! Sherlock needs you,” Mycroft called out, but the blonde kept fighting. “John!”

Everything that was happening was too much for the detective. “Make it stop, Mycie,” Sherlock begged.

God government official had pretty much reached the door with his brother by now. He pushed passed the guards, “lock him in one of the holding cells. When he has sorted his priorities out, you may release him.”

Mycroft took his brother straight to his room and settled him down. He found the sedative and injected it into him. He would be difficult to calm without John around, but the doctor himself needed a few moments. He held his hand as Sherlock's eyes began to flicker shut, his hold on Mozilla not loosening at all.

It would seem him and his own boyfriend may need to move back into this room for a while.

He slipped his brother's arm back into his sling and reapplied the drop, putting as much painkiller into it as possible.

Mycroft's mobile rang. He would have ignored it, but it might be about the Hooper woman. Pulling it out and glancing at it, he saw it was his boyfriend. “Gregory?”

“We're still sorting things out,” Greg informed him. “I just wanted to see how Sherlock and John are doing.”

“Er…” Mycroft's voice broke off in a crack.

“Myc?”

“I've had to sedate him, Greg, he was too upset and John went off on another rampage. He's cooling down in one of the cells.”

“Fuck!” Greg swore, then came a thud as he kicked something. “Should I turn the manhunt over to someone else? Do you need me there?”

Mycroft ran a hand through his hair. “Get Anthea to supervise the manhunt. She's smart enough to put the right people on to it.” He squeezed his sleeping brother's hand softly. “Sherlock will need you here when he wakes.”

Greg didn't quite understand why, but he knew Mycroft would explain as soon as he could.

Mycroft rang off and collapsed into one of the chairs beside Sherlock's bed.

When the door opened, he stood and wrapped his arms around a worried looking Greg.

“What happened?”

“The moron that informed us of Hooper. It triggered some sort of fit… nightmare for him… he awoke thinking me and you were dead, his toy had been burnt by the bitch and he'd just watched John… he woke up then but John couldn't take it…”

“I'll talk to him,” Greg offered. “Maybe I can calm him down.”

“No. You didn't see him. I wouldn't put it passed him to attack you if he got the chance.”

“I won't go in, just talk to him through the door.”

Mycroft glanced at his brother laid out on the bed.

“No,” he sighed, “we can't all leave him. We've seen the affects waking up alone has on him and after whatever that… fit thing was… He said we were gone in it. John can't be helped. When he's calmed down… hopefully he will do so before my brother wakes up.”

“You're going to let John at her, though, aren't you?”

“Once she's found. I should be coordinating that…”

Greg reached forward and wrapped his arms around him. “Mycie, it'll all be alright, I promise. Things will work out.”

Mycroft buried his head in the DI's shoulder.

“Well, the next port of call is getting John's status back. He can't work as a doctor until… well, not only that, but I think it's affecting him more than he's letting on.”

“Of course, you're right.” Greg sighed. “It'll require you to pull in favours, though, won't it?”

“Yes. I was reluctant to do so, but I see it's necessary for John's stability.” Mycroft had already started the mental list of who he would have to involve. It would be tiring and time consuming, but it was easily doable.

Mycroft snatched up his laptop and settled at the table by the window.

“It's going to make it a lot harder not being able to leave the room, though.”

“Just tell me what I can do to help,” the DI offered.

“I could use some tea, then I just need you to watch 'Lock whilst I work.”

“Of course.”

 

A few hours later, Sherlock began to rouse. Greg went to him, “Sherlock, how do you feel?”

“Where's John?” the detective asked in a small, tired voice.

Then he realised who had spoken to him and he tried to lunge for the DI.

Surprised, but not showing it, Greg held him back on the bed and sat on the edge.

“You were dead, too.” Sherlock's voice shook.

“Well, I'm not.” The DI gave him a smile. “See? Here I am.”

Sherlock nodded as he looked around the small room. He saw Mycroft busy at his computer, but the doctor was nowhere to be seen. “I want John. Is he OK? Please, is he OK?

Greg inclined his head, seeing the only option in front of him was to lie. Sherlock was likely to panic at the alternative.

“He's fine, Sherlock, there's just something he needed to catch up on, that's all.”

“No.” The detective looked at Greg. He could see the strain at the corner of his eyes. In his current state, he couldn't deduce properly, but he knew something was wrong. “No, sir. I... Sir, that's not true.”

The DI had never been more relieved when the door opened.

John rushed over to them, even managing to gain Mycroft's attention long enough to stop typing.

“Hey, 'Lock,” the doctor offered softly.

“Sir-” he croaked, reaching for him.

“Gregory, I need these documents printed and then your signature as well as mine,” the government official mumbled. He stood up and joined his brother beside his bed.

The DI nodded. “I'll sign anything, you know that.” He sat at the table, taking Mycroft's place and starting the documents printing.

“John, I hope you understand,” the elder Holmes began.

“I don't want to talk about it,” John cut him off. “Not right now. I'm sorry I couldn't be here, Sherlock, but I'm here now.”

“John, I don't care what you want. This conversation needs to happen. It can happen civilly in the corridor where Sherlock can still see you or you can go back to where you've just come from. Alternatively, we could have this discussion right here. In front of Sherlock.”

One look at the detective's stricken face determined John's answer. “In the corridor.” He brushed Sherlock's curls back from his forehead. “We won't be long, I promise.” Still the detective clung to him. “You'll be able to see us the whole time.” He pulled away and Sherlock let him go, albeit reluctantly. “Let's get this over with, Mycroft.”

“Do I have to keep you away from him?” Mycroft hissed when they reached the corridor.

“What?”

“Your temper! Control it. What if you do something to him? Hurt him?”

John suddenly choked on nothing. “I wouldn't…”

“Wouldn't you? That's twice in a week you've gone off on one.”

The doctor should've been surprised by the phrase from the older man, but he was too embarrassed.

“I think these should help,” Mycroft added as Greg appeared at the door with a handful of papers. He took them and shoved them into John's hands. “Read them.”

After a few moments, the doctor looked up from his reading. “I don't understand. I thought you were taking over as my owner.”

“I was, but it quickly became clear that wasn't enough. Your status has been eating away at you.” Mycroft watched John's face for a reaction. “You've been reinstated as a citizen and your record expunged. You're free, John.”

That should have been good news, but the blond didn't take it as such. “I don't…” He trailed off, not sure where to look. “I'm sorry. The thought of Molly makes me mad, but I'll try and control it. I promise.”

“What?” Mycroft was confused. “Why are you-”

“Just… don't, please don't send me away. I get you have to look out for Sherlock first, but… I just…” he took a deep breath and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Then he sighed, glancing at Sherlock who looked like he'd burst into tears at any moment. “Ok. You're right, of course,” John turned and began walking away.

“What the- John? Where are you going?”

The doctor paused, “you don't need to rub it in, Mycroft.”

Realisation hit the older man and it came as a bit of a shock.

“No, no, no, I've not done this to get rid of you…”

“Then why?” John sounded dangerously close to tears.

The government official could have kicked himself. If John had survived everything only to be broken by Mycroft's actions... “I did it so you would have your freedom. You can legally practice medicine now. Sherlock is your first patient and, if it becomes necessary, you can be given full custody of him. If that's something you would want.”

“But he… I'm…”

“Hurt. Hurt by what Molly did. To you and to Sherlock… now we've got to put things right. But don't think for one moment me and Gregory can do this alone.”

John nodded. “I'll try not to think about her. If I do-” He shrugged. If he thought about Molly, he'd try to go after her again.

Mycroft knew what John hadn't said. “I've decided to give you a chance at her, when she's located.”

“A chance at her. What does that mean?”

“You'll get to ask your questions.”

“No, there's more to it than that.”

“John!” Came a yell.

The doctor stopped and really looked at Mycroft. He could see that the other man was trying to tell him something, but without words. “Mycroft?”

“Accidents happen, John,” the government official said meaningfully. “They happen every day.”

“You know that's not good enough, not after what she did.”

“And sometimes people just... disappear. Who knows what happens to them then.”

“John!”

“I think it's time you went to see my brother, don't you?”

Molly was literally the only conversation topic that would stop him from going to Sherlock the first time he called.

At Mycroft's nod, John turned and went back into the room. He crossed to Sherlock's side and sat on the bed opposite Greg. “Hey, babe. Thank you for using my name.”

The detective ducked his head. “Don't make me go to sleep again. I don't want to see Mistress. If I go to sleep, I'll see her.”

“Shh, you don't have to see her. Are you tired?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Honest.”

“How long was he asleep?” He asked the DI.

“About 4 hours.”

“Alright, what do you want to do then?” Mycroft asked as he came back in. He'd needed a few deep breaths on his own.

“Ördek!”

With a weary sigh, John nodded. “Of course. You want to see the duck.” He doubted the others would agree with Molly on the loose. “Mycroft? What do you think?”

The government official looked up from his phone where he had just sent a text. “Perhaps in a bit. I'm having a gun brought for you, John. Actually, I'm having guns brought for the three of us.”

John almost grinned as his SIG was placed in his hand.

“I have kind of missed having this thing around.”

“Well, watch it,” Mycroft warned. “You're free now, anything to you do is down to you from this point and carrying a gun is still illegal.”

He pushed it into his waistband as Sherlock wrapped his arm around him. “Don't go, John.”

“Hey, I'm not going anywhere.”

The detective cringed back in his bed. He didn't believe John. The doctor only carried his SIG when he was going somewhere, doing something dangerous. Sherlock started crying.

“Hey, munchkin,” it wasn't John who spoke, though, it was Mycroft. He bent down and picked up his now crying baby brother. “Come on. I thought you wanted to see the duck.”

John had opened the door and Greg had already walked through it, his own gun poking out of his waistband.

“It's Ördek, Mycie,” Sherlock pouted.

Once they were out in the park, Sherlock started squirming. “I want down.”

Having grabbed the wheelchair that had been sitting by the exit, John rolled it over. Mycroft set his brother down in it.

“I don't want the stupid chair.” Sherlock tried to stand up.

Huffing, John walked around and sat on his lap.

“Mr. Holmes can push us.”

Mycroft laughed. “Alright.”

A Sherlock with John on his lap proved to be a happy Sherlock. He rested his head against the doctor's back and simply enjoyed holding him. The nightmare had been shoved to the back of Sherlock's mind quite firmly and he wasn't haunted by bad memories, at least, not at the moment.

“Ördek!” He yelled when they reached the lake.

John absolutely refused to get off of Sherlock's lap and Mycroft refused to let go of the wheelchair in case it 'wheeled off into the lake'.

That left Greg to catch the duck

Despite everything, both John and Mycroft laughed. The DI was running this way and that, the duck complaining quite vocally.

“Gavin! Run faster and don't scare Ördek,” the detective shouted. It was the loudest and most commanding Sherlock had been since the rescue. And the three men reacted perfectly; not at all.

“Oh, Gavin, I forgot to mention, you're chasing the wrong duck.”

Ördek was across the lake, swimming towards them. He completely ignored the DI when he got to the bank and waddled over to the wheelchair. Then, with a little flap he was up onto John's lap.

“Hello,” the doctor said to Ördek. “You really are friendly.”

The duck gave a little quack, then tucked its feet underneath itself and sat, content to ignore him now.

“My duckie.” Sherlock reached around John and petted the duck's feathers.

With a glance at Mycroft, who nodded, John slid from Sherlock's lap and replaced the gap with the duck.

“He is your duckie.” They should be laughing at such language from a detective, the detective.

“Take duckie inside.”

“I don't really think that's feasible, 'Lock,” Mycroft answered.

“Why not?” Greg asked. “Put a paddling pool in the little garden bit the window shows onto. He would be quite at home.”

Sherlock was ignoring their conversation, Ördek had wrapped his beak around one of Mozilla's legs, tugging gently. Sherlock was chuckling at it, highly amused.

“See, he missed me,” Sherlock pointed out. “And he missed Mozilla. He'll cry if he has to stay outside.”

“Alright. We'll try it.” Mycroft shot Greg a look. “But Gregory has to clean up after Ördek.”

John laughed, “Nice one, mate.”

Sherlock set his toy on his lap and picked up the duck, hugging him. Then he held his finger to his beak.

“'Lock…” John worried instantly.

“It's fine, John,” the younger man offered lightly, almost Sherlockian.

Sherlock pressed his finger into his beak and laughed as Ördek 'bit' down.

“See.” The detective pulled his finger back and waved it at the doctor. “Ördek is nice. Ördek doesn't hurt people.” He presented his finger to the duck again and it repeated the action.

“He better be, or there will be duck soup,” John teased. Feeling uneasy, he looked around the park, watching for danger, but there wasn't any. Still, his fingers itched to pull his SIG. Maybe Mycroft shouldn't have given it to him.

Mycroft knew exactly what the younger man was thinking, but he trusted him even if he pulled it out. He wouldn't hurt himself or Gregory and he certainly wouldn't hurt Sherlock.

As John looked around, Sherlock had struggled to his feet, he left Mozilla in his place but lifted Ördek up with him.

“Wait, I can get him,” the doctor offered.

“No. He likes you, but he likes me better.”

“I don't want you to hurt your arm again.”

Sherlock turned, moving the duck out of John's reach. “It's fine.”

John actually smiled at his antics, but not in sight of Sherlock. He was becoming more like his old self every second.

He wasn't the only one to realise it. Mycroft and Greg were stood, their hands gripped in each other's, watching fondly.

“Ördek wants to go swimming.” Sherlock started walking towards the pond, his intent clear - he was going swimming with Ördek.

“We discussed this, 'Lock,” John said, keeping his tone reasonable. “It's too cold for you to get in the pond.”

“But if we go back to our room, Mycroft said he'd have a paddling pool put up in the small garden. If you ask him nicely he might put hot water in it for you?”

“Not hot, warm,” Sherlock corrected. “Ördek doesn't like hot water. He's a duck, John.” It was almost said scathingly.

“Right. How stupid of me.”

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched up into an almost smile. “Fine.” He turned and headed towards the building.

“Uh-ah, stop right there, mister,” John ordered.

“What, John?” He moaned.

This time the doctor couldn't help but smirk at him. “In the chair. I'm not having you walk all that distance and then collapse when we get back to our room.”

Sherlock pouted. “I don't want to ride in the chair. The chair is boring.”

John wasn't above a bit of bribery. “If you ride in the chair for me, I'll make sure your next meal is waffles.”

The detective grinned and then looked at Ördek, “what do you think?”

The duck didn't seem to have a comment he kind of just grunted, but then he reached up and pecked Sherlock's nose.

He laughed softly. “Silly Ördek.”

“But what about Mozilla?” John asked. “Shall I hold him?”

“Now you're being silly, John.”

“Huh?”

“The real reason you want me in the chair is so you can sit on my lap and get a ride with Mozilla and Ördek.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, then managed a smile. “You caught me. Sit down so I can have a seat.”

Sherlock did, moving Ördek to the side to make room for the doctor. “I'm always right.”

Mycroft's sigh of relief from behind them was audible.

He dropped his hand in his brother's messy curls. “You are, Sherlock,” he agreed.

Greg suddenly ran in front of them laughing. “I caught the Ördek look alike!” This duck was a lot less willing to be held, however.

At the look the other men gave him, the DI asked, “What? I don't want Ördek to get lonely. He needs a duck friend, not just humans.”

“Oh, Gregory.” Mycroft smiled at his boyfriend. He knew the other man was trying to make them feel relaxed. And he was doing a bloody good job.

Sherlock was laughing at the noise that Greg's 'Ördek' was making as it was struggling like mad. All until the duck on Sherlock's lap quacked once and then it seemed to calm.

“Huh.” John just shook his head as Mycroft wheeled them towards the building. “I can't believe I'm going to be sleeping with two ducks.”

The closer they got to the building, the more restless Sherlock grew. It was as if he couldn't stand the thought of being inside.

Mycroft seemed to sense it. Rather than push him through the door, he wheeled him around the front, but not after passing on the order to have a paddling pool filled up.

The detective relaxed again. The further from the building they got, the more at ease he grew. If it wasn't so cold, Mycroft reflected, they'd just sleep outside.

Or at least… they'd wait for Sherlock to tire himself out with his new friends and then carry him in when he fell asleep.

Less than an hour later, when Sherlock had reminded them that he was having waffles for dinner, the three older men sat around the table, all nursing a beer. Mycroft drinking shouldn't have surprised the doctor, not really, after everything but it was kind of a nice sight.

Sherlock sat in the pool, in a pair of knee length shorts and a T-shirt, he still had Ördek on his lap, but the other duck seemed happy to swim around in the small space.

“Ördek doesn't want bread for dinner,” the detective announced.

John leaned back in his chair. “Let me guess, he wants waffles.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Waffles would be bad for him. He wants corn. And lettuce.”

“Of course he does,” Mycroft agreed. Frankly, he would give absolutely anything for his little brother to not revert to how he had been mere hours ago.

“Shall I go and get dinner sorted?” The DI offered, draining the last dregs of his beer.

Mycroft smiled, “thank you,” he whispered, kissing him quickly. “And bring back more beer.”

“No, Gavin, you can't go alone. You have to take Mozilla. He will look after you.”

“Thank you,” Greg said gravely as he took the stuffed toy. “We'll look after each other.”

Sherlock watched as his friend disappeared. Feeling a slight dread, he bit his lip and looked down at the water.

John couldn't bear to see his face like that, so he pulled his jeans off, leaving him in a pair of pants and a shirt before he joined him.

The lone duck quacked it's annoyance as the blond walked passed it, but it soon settled again.

Mycroft's phone rang. He pulled it out and glanced at it. The call wasn't from Anthea or Greg, but from a colleague at the Diogenes. He silenced the phone, but he couldn't keep doing that forever. Sooner rather than later, he would have to return to work.

Then he looked over at his brother, his baby brother, his broken baby brother. This had been his fault. He shouldn't have said yes to a job that he knew would take him out of the country undetectable for so long. Work. He had become the British Government to protect his little brother, being the British Government had left said little brother open to… well, open to this. Work could bloody well wait for a change. In fact, he ditched his jacket and trousers and join his brother in the pool.


	15. Chapter 15

When Greg returned, he did a double take. Shrugging, he stripped down to his pants and joined the other three men. “I can't believe I'm doing this,” he said as he stepped into the pool. He really couldn't. The DI wanted to be out hunting Molly, but he knew he was needed here more.

It was a larger than normal paddling pool but it didn't leave that much spare room with 4 fully grown men and two ducks.

Greg immediately reached for the quacking duck that was circling itself in the small space in the middle. Surprisingly, as soon as it was in his clutches it seemed to calm.

Sherlock gave the DI and the duck a considering look. “You should name your duck.”

“He's not my duck.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I believe the duck begs to differ.”

John burst out laughing.

“What?” Sherlock quizzed cautiously.

“What is it about the words 'the duck' that are so funny?” John didn't know why… he couldn't explain it.

“John?” Greg asked, slightly worried. “Are you alright, mate?”

The doctor only laughed harder. Maybe it was a much needed release of stress. He didn't know.

Greg spun the duck around so he could look into its eyes.

“Beaker. You are Beaker. I am now known as the duck tamer,” he added.

“No,” Sherlock argued getting their attentions. “The duck whisperer.”

“Just what I needed to round out my CV,” Greg quipped as the duck gave a loud quack.

“I may get jealous, Gregory.”

“There's no need, I promise.” The DI put the duck down in the water. But it wouldn't leave him alone, he had been placed in the middle of the pool and he immediately swam across and back into his lap again.

Sherlock laughed, still stroking Ördek.

“Mycroft, do something,” Greg demanded as he placed Beaker into the pool once more.

“I believe you might as well resign yourself to being Beaker's best friend, Gregory.”

The duck climbed into the DI's lap yet again. He gave Beaker an irritated look. “Keep that up and you'll be Christmas dinner.”

“Mean,” Sherlock pouted.

He put Ördek into the middle and he was successful in distracting Beaker from Greg's lap.

There was a knock at the door and they all turned to see Anthea standing there. “I have an update for DI Lestrade.”

Greg stood with a sigh. “Give me five seconds.”

Anthea nodded and stepped back inside, closing the door.

“I won't be long,” he promised, kissing Mycroft quickly.

Reaching for John's hand, Sherlock bit his lip. He didn't want Greg to go anywhere.

The door was mostly glass, so Sherlock could still see his favourite DI.

Still holding his 'boyfriend's' hand Sherlock shifted over so he was as close to Mycroft as he could get.

“'Lock, what's wrong?” Mycroft asked sensing his brother's unease. He already knew the answer, but perhaps having Sherlock express it would help him somehow.

The detective kept his eyes locked on the door. “I don't want her to hurt him,” he whispered.

“I promise you, Greg is safe. At the moment, the four of us are the safest people in London.” Mycroft gave his brother's shoulder a soothing pat.

“But Mistress got out. Mycroft… sir… that man said it… the man with the scary gun. She could get you. Or John or Gavin, sir.”

Mycroft didn't miss how he'd avoided mentioning himself in his list.

Reaching over the edge of the pool, John dried off his hands, then picked up his gun. He held it up and waited until he had Sherlock's attention. “Molly won't hurt any of us. That, I promise you.”

A hesitant smile made its way onto Sherlock's face as he thought back to when they had met and how John had saved his life. The doctor always seemed to be saving him.

“We saved each other,” John responded to the look. “And don't even think of arguing.”

“No, sir.”

The doctor sighed and raised an eyebrow.

“John.”

“Better, babe,” he cupped his cheek briefly and looked up when Greg appeared, the door shut again.

He waited until he had joined them in the paddling pool again before speaking. “They haven't found Hooper but they think she is with… someone. Someone claiming mere days ago that she had nothing to do with her and the plan.”

“You will let me at Donovan too,” the blond growled in Mycroft's direction.

The government official sighed. “If the Hooper woman is indeed with her, then by all means I'll let you 'at her'.”

“I don't like Sally,” Sherlock said quietly. “She pretends to be nice to people, but she's not.”

John's gaze actually flickered up and down Sherlock once. He didn't know what it was but there was something about him… something about the way he had said that…

“Mycroft, Greg, would you give us a moment?”

The government official met John's eyes, then nodded. “Of course. Gregory, perhaps you would join me whilst I get dressed.” They wouldn't leave Sherlock's sight, but they would step into their room and give John as much space as they could.

Sherlock studied them carefully, watching them enter the building and then as they began to get dressed.

“'Lock, what did you mean by what you just said?”

The detective didn't meet John's eyes, he just splashed in the water.

“Babe, I missed something. You need to tell me what.”

“Sometimes, when she would come by the lab... Mistress had you on the leash in the corner...” Sherlock breathed long and deep. “You couldn't see as you were in Mistress' office. Donovan liked to talk to me. She told me how worthless I was. You know what she called me...” His voice dropped to a whisper. “She said now that everyone knew the truth about me, she'd have Gavin's job, he'd come back from his 'leave' to an investigation. She was gleeful about it.”

“She was wrong,” John countered immediately.

The detective frowned and then reached for Ördek, wrapping his arms around him. He quacked once but then settled. Greg's duck seemed well settled to staying out of Sherlock's reach.

John pushed just a bit more. “I remember about her putting you in the boot and how rough she was with you.” He ran his hand through Sherlock's curls. “Did she do anything else to hurt you? Physically, I mean.”

Sherlock looked around, not answering.

“Babe, please talk. For me.”

After 30 seconds of deliberation, he nodded. “Before Mistress bought you,” he said quietly.

John hid his left hand - which had tightened into a fist - from view. He didn't want to upset Sherlock further. “Thank you for telling me.” After a pause, he added, “Would you like to do something else or is this good?”

Sherlock shrugged as he smoothed Ördek's feathers. “I don't know.”

At that point Mycroft and Greg came back outside.

“'Lock, dinner's nearly ready, do you want to come out and I'll help you get dressed?”

“Not hungry.”

“It's a special treat,” Mycroft cajoled. “I had someone fetch food from Angelo's. They're laying it out for us as we speak.”

“We can share a plate,” John offered.

“I wanted waffles,” Sherlock whispered.

Mycroft reached down to help his brother up. He didn't let go of Ördek though, carrying him along with him.

“You can have waffles for pudding,” Mycroft promised.

At the door to the building, Mycroft placed his hand gently on his brother's back. “You need to leave Ördek outside, baby brother. He's an outdoor creature.”

Sherlock looked down at the duck in his arms with a forlorn expression. “He doesn't want to stay outside.”

“But you don't want my duck to be lonely, do you?” Greg asked. He was trying to catch Beaker but he wasn't having any of it.

“See,” John nudged him slightly. “They need some duckie time together.”

With obvious regret, Sherlock bent and set Ördek on the ground. The duck quacked, then waddled off after Beaker.

“If it helps any, I have some of Beaker's feathers,” Greg told him. “You can look at them under your microscope.”

Sherlock smiled but only slightly.

John scooped him up into his arms, ignoring the ache in his shoulder.

“I'm sure your brother would pick you up, 'Lock,” he whispered. “But I doubt he'd enjoy getting his suit wet.”

“Pansy,” the detective whispered.

John chuckled. “And he doesn't like leg work.”

At those words, Sherlock smiled smugly. “I'm better at it anyway.”

“Of course you are. I can't wait to get back to it.”

“When do I get to see Mrs. Hudson? I want her biscuits.”

Mycroft and Greg froze, John would have had a hard time doing so with Sherlock in his arms but he still managed to look at the younger man in surprise.

He hadn't mentioned Mrs. Hudson yet. Or anyone from before…

John kissed Sherlock's temple. “I'm sure she wants to see you too, 'Lock. She was ever so upset when... never mind. I know she'll want to see you.” He turned to look at the elder Holmes. “Mycroft?”

“I'll see to it,” the government official agreed, “immediately after we dine.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock whined, struggling in the doctor's arms.

“John was quite right about my suit, 'Lock,” the government official pointed out. But still he took his brother from the blond's grip.

At that little victory, Sherlock looked incredibly smug. John's heart leapt at that little display of manipulation on the detective's part. Maybe it wasn't much, but it was a hint of the old Sherlock. Before, Sherlock had seemed to love walking… the freedom of it. Now it seemed he was more like his brother and hated it unless he wasn't supposed to be doing it for health reasons. Definitely Sherlock.

Back in their room, Sherlock complained that it was cold.

“Then you'll simply have to get dressed,” John pointed out quite logically, he thought.

“Dressing is boring. Besides, I want a shower.”

“Then take a shower.”

“I want a shower with you, John, sir.”

The doctor took Sherlock hand. “What was that?”

“I want a shower with you, John.”

“Better.” John smiled at him. “And alright.”

“Nope,” Mycroft said softly. “Food first, little brother, I know your game.”

The doctor looked around at Mycroft, surprised, but it only lasted a moment. “Sherlock, you are sneaky. You had me distracted. Change into some pyjamas and a dressing gown if you're cold so we can eat.”

Sherlock actually smirked. “Getting slow, John?” He asked.

The doctor caught him in a hug. “My brat,” he whispered, kissing his temple.

Again, John felt that maybe there was hope. Just then, his stomach rumbled and he wondered how he could have been distracted from the wonderful smell of food from Angelo's.

“Now go and sit on your brother's lap and be a good boy,” John ordered with a slight shove. “I need to pee.”

Sherlock grinned and sat in Mycroft's lap, his shorts still wet. “John told me to, Mycie,” he said in mock seriousness. “I always do what John says.”

Mycroft briefly ran a hand through his hair. “I know, baby brother. I know,” the last was said almost sadly. “Now come on, eat up, it's your favourite. I want to see if you can eat 5 mouthfuls before John comes back.”

“I can if they are little bites. Cut it up small, Mycie.” Sherlock had almost whispered it.

“Alright, 'Lock.” Mycroft cut five tiny bites of lasagne and offered one to his brother who ate it without complaint.

On Sherlock's 7th mouthful John returned.

“You gonna be big and strong?” He said.

Sherlock grinned almost dopily and then suddenly started looking around. “Where's Mozilla?” He had tears in his eyes almost instantly.

“Oh, fuck. We left him outside.” John started to go get him, but the DI stopped him.

“You stay here with Sherlock. I'll get Mozilla.” Greg jogged from the room to fetch the stuffed toy.

When the DI reappeared, Sherlock stood and wrapped himself around him like a limpet.

“Thank you, Gavin.”

Greg waited for him to have his moment and then stepped back. Holding him at arms length he looked into his eyes seriously. “If I legally changed my name to Gavin would you call me Greg?”

“Nope. I'd call you Geoff.”

Greg couldn't help himself, he hugged Sherlock fiercely again. “Good. That's good.”

“Now can you let go?”

“No. You got your hug. I want mine.”

Sherlock laughed. “But you're squashing Mozilla, sir.”

John cleared his throat.

“I meant Greg, Geoff, no Gavin.”

The DI finally let go. “Well, only because I was squashing Mozilla.” He took a seat at the table. “You know, as much as I've heard about Angelo, I've never had anything from his restaurant.”

Sherlock grabbed his hand, back to being serious again. He led him over to the table and pushed him into the empty chair beside Mycroft.

The detective then moved around to sit beside John.

The older brother watched almost sadly as Sherlock held Mozilla tightly on his lap. Just earlier in the day he was going to leave him behind but changed his mind last minute.

Sherlock wouldn't eat off of his own plate, but stole small bites from each of the other men's plates. Sometimes he offered a bite to Mozilla, before eating it himself. After some time, he set his fork down and frowned. “What happens if she never gets found?”

The other three tensed.

“She will,” Mycroft was the first to respond but it wasn't with the usual confidence that he always had.

Sherlock's deduction skills seemed to be in full swing this evening though and he frowned at Mycroft, seeing the lie for what it was The detective's voice was quiet as he spoke, “You can't all stay forever. Will you leave me here? I don't want to be alone.”

John reached over and dropped his hand on his thigh.

“Look at me, 'Lock,” he made it an order so he knew he'd get compliance.

When he met his eye (if only briefly) John continued, “You’re my boyfriend. When we leave here, you'll be my husband. Then we are never allowed to leave each other.”

The kiss Sherlock gave John was the least childlike thing he had done since they had been rescued. It absolutely took the doctor's breath away.

“I take it that's a yes, then, babe,” John said between breaths.

“Hmm,” he murmured moving to rest his head on his shoulder.

He snagged another bit of food and pushed it between John's lips. Then did the same again but ate it himself.

Greg had to look away from the sight. It made his heart ache painfully in his chest. He looked up when Mycroft clasped his hand. The look in his boyfriend's eyes echoed his own feelings precisely.

Sherlock seemed quite content in just sitting there, on his own chair but leaning on John as he ate by himself. He occasionally glanced at Mozilla as if he was going to up and vanish at any moment.

The doctor longed to take away Sherlock's insecurity. He wanted to see that cocky self-assurance back in place, glorious and infuriating at once.

Sherlock, seemingly done eating, glanced down at Mozilla. He picked him up and put him on the table. That's when he realised all the food on the other plates was still there.

“You not hungry?” He asked his brother sadly. “I know you are, John, sir. I heard your tummy.”

“What? Oh.” The doctor looked down at his plate and hastily picked up his fork. He glanced back up at Sherlock. “I was just thinking, I guess.”

The detective poked a finger at John's plate. “You eat. I'll think.”

However, the two older men were still staring at the two younger.

Sherlock cleared his throat and suddenly threw Mozilla across the table.

“You need to eat, Mycie.”

“I suppose Mozilla says so?” Mycroft asked.

“Obviously. And he says Gavin needs to eat as well. You both need to keep your strength up.”

Mycroft frowned. He stared down at his brother's childhood - no, his now toy.

“Sherlock, what do we need to keep our strength up for?” He asked, looking seriously across the table at the younger Holmes.

Without answering, Sherlock stood and gathered up the feathers that had been collected. He took them over to his microscope. Just as Mycroft was about to repeat his question, the detective answered quietly, “For when you find her,” then he set about putting one of the feathers on a slide.

Sherlock sat like that, at the microscope for four solid hours. Not moving with Mozilla on the chair beside him, one hand resting on his head.

He was steadfastly ignoring the waffles that John placed beside him over two hours ago.

It was getting to the doctor, being effectively trapped in the room with the other three men and unable to go out and do anything. He couldn't fix Sherlock. He couldn't hunt down Molly. What use was he to anyone?

Mycroft could read John's frustration in his posture. “You're of a great deal of use, John. Without you, my brother would be unable to function at all.”

“All he's doing is sitting there!” John snapped. “He hasn't moved. He hasn't moved for four fucking hours!” As he stood he kicked the chair back that he had been sat on.

At that, Sherlock finally moved. Actually, he flinched and cowered away from the sudden noise.

John, seeing it, suddenly felt nauseous. “Jesus.” His shoulders slumped he took a step towards the detective. “I'm sorry, babe. I didn't mean to startle you.”

Sherlock stepped back, glancing at the three men in turn, then he dropped to his knees, Mozilla fallen forgotten on the floor.

“I'm sorry, sir, I'm sorry, sir…”

John dropped to his knees as well and shuffled over to him. “Babe, hush. You didn't do anything wrong. I did. I'm tired and frustrated, but not with you. I just need some rest and to feel like I'm worth something.” He held out his arms. “Please, can I hug you?”

Sherlock backed off again. Mycroft was close to intervening but he knew if John stood no chance in calming is brother neither did he nor Greg.

“Maybe we need a day trip excursion somewhere. Or even a few hours.” John thought out loud. “We could go and see Mrs. Hudson?”

Grey-green eyes widening, Sherlock nodded. He relaxed a bit and even let John wrap his arms around him. “I don't like your angry voice, John,” he whispered into the doctor's ear.

“I know, babe. I'll try not to use it again.” But he knew deep down that wouldn't be enough. He couldn't keep on top of his temper as much as he wanted. He'd said so to Mycroft mere days ago.

“I think we need to find something to distract John's temper,” Mycroft whispered to Greg.

“Punching bag maybe?”

“Mm. Perhaps.” Mycroft considered. “A daily physical workout would not be remiss. It might serve to burn off some frustration.”

John continued to hold Sherlock as he calmed. He felt like an idiot. In fact he felt like the biggest idiot out there. He knew what shouting did to Sherlock and yet… he just couldn't control himself. Like he couldn't with Molly and Sherlock was the one who always got hurt.

He bowed his head, letting it come to rest on Sherlock's shoulder. If he stayed, he'd just keep making the same mistakes. If he left... That would tear Sherlock apart. A sob ripped itself out of the doctor and echoed around the room.

“Sherlock, John,” Mycroft started. “I think it might be time for bed.”

“Waffles!” Sherlock suddenly declared.

Mycroft smiled softly, it wasn't late but at least that had gotten a reaction out of them.

“You won't leave us tonight, will you Mycie?” He asked quietly.

“No, neither I nor Gregory will leave.” The government official regarded John. “But perhaps you will consent to letting John get some rest whilst you eat your waffles?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, you should rest, John.”

“Alright, babe.” The doctor got shakily to his feet and pressed his lips to Sherlock's for a moment. Then he rolled his shoulders. “Mycroft, I might need something to help me sleep.”

The government official nodded once. He went to the door to order more waffles - warm ones - and when he returned he carried two brown tablets.

“We'll distract him for a bit,” he whispered in the doctor's ear.

John didn't hesitate, he dry swallowed the tablets, then he climbed into bed. He tried to clear his mind and not think about anything, but it was impossible. Instead, he listened to the chatter of the other three men. Well… two men, Greg and Mycroft were trying to engage the younger man in conversation but by the sound of it, or rather lack of sound, Sherlock wasn't replying.

Despite the worry that John felt, sleep eventually pulled him under. It was Greg that noticed and pointed it out to the other two men. “John's finally getting some rest.”

Sherlock looked over at the doctor but still didn't comment.

When his waffles arrived he moved away from the other two men and sat in the corner while he ate them quietly. Then he snatched Mozilla up and climbed into bed, keeping away from John as much as he could.

Mycroft walked over and ran his hand through Sherlock's curls. “'Lock? What are you doing?”

“I don't want to wake John,” the detective whispered. “He needs his rest. He needs lots of rest so he won't be so tired.”

Mycroft nodded but wasn't convinced those few words were the bottom of whatever it was. He slid similar tablets between Sherlock's lips and held a glass of water for him.

Sighing softly as he watched his baby brother drift off to sleep, he stood again and took Greg's hand. He led him over to the bed they'd pulled in from the other room.

The pair fell asleep instantly, wrapped in one another.

 

The morning proved Mycroft's suspicions of the night before. Sherlock didn't talk to anyone as they ate. Even having Mozilla on his lap didn't make him talk.

John pulled Mycroft off to the side. “Is it me?” he asked. “Am I the reason he's not talking?”

The elder Holmes shook his head slowly. “I don't think so. He still wanted to be near you, despite your outburst yesterday. I'm certain it has more to do with the Hooper woman's escape.”

“You're not going to let us out of here with her still on the loose, are you?”

Mycroft inclined his head slightly, in thought. “Myself, you and Gregory will be armed at all times. We'll have 4 other armed officers… even if she got near there's nothing she could do without being stopped fairly quickly.”

“What about Sherlock?”

“Are you suggesting we weigh up the pros and cons of giving him a gun?”

Sighing long and hard, John shook his head. “I know a gun's not practical, but maybe a Taser?” He sounded hopeful. “At least he'd be able to defend himself.”

Mycroft nodded. “That can be arranged. And I think your idea of visiting Mrs. Hudson is an excellent one.”

Having decided on the plan of action, Mycroft pulled the DI aside to discuss it and John sat beside Sherlock, hoping to find out what his opinion on the taser was.  
After he explained he took his hand. “What do you think?”

Sherlock's gaze barely moved from the cup of tea that he hadn't touched and he certainly didn't open his mouth.

“Well, since you didn't object, I'm going to assume you like the idea.” John reached up and massaged Sherlock's shoulder. “I know Mrs. Hudson will be glad to see you. You don't have to say anything now, but be thinking of something to say to her. If nothing else, you can try 'Hello, Mrs. Hudson.'“

Sherlock's gaze flickered to the floor and then back to his tea.

John didn't like this. Not one bit. It was far too similar to broken Sherlock sat in the cage in Molly's basement.

“Right then.” John brought his hands down on the table and pushed himself up. “Let's get you cleaned up and dressed. You'll want to look your best for Mrs. H.” He held out his hand out and waited for Sherlock to take it. It took several long seconds before he did.

John grinned at the older men as they passed but Sherlock didn't. He found the carpet far more interesting as he dragged Mozilla by the tail.

John sighed as he helped him undress shower and change with nothing more than a wince when he twisted his arm in the wrong direction.

“Let me mess up your hair.” John tousled it artfully. “There, now Mrs. Husdon will recognise you.” Not getting a response, the doctor hugged Sherlock. “Oh, 'Lock.” Letting him go, he turned and put on clean clothes himself.

Sherlock didn't respond and John sighed. He took Sherlock's hand and picked up Mozilla that had been left on the toilet seat.

Mycroft was stood in the hall waiting for them. He pressed the doctor's SIG into his hand, smiling reassuringly.

John didn't feel reassured, not where Sherlock was concerned. He wanted to talk to Mycroft about him or talk to Greg, but he couldn't leave the detective's side long enough to do it. Instead, he had to worry silently. He took Sherlock's hand. “Come on, babe. Let's go see Mrs. H.”

Sherlock filed after the other three, watching the floor.

When they reached the road, four armed men were waiting.

“It's your favourite car, 'Lock,” Mycroft smiled, his hand on his brother's shoulder. He had had Anthea hunt for hours to find the right one. “The one mummy had when we were little.”

It was a Range Rover. It at least managed to grab Sherlock attention as he smiled when they climbed in.

“You men follow on,” Mycroft ordered.

In the car, Sherlock was still quiet, but he sat close to John and lay his head on his shoulder.

“Why don't you look out the window, 'Lock? Tell me what you see. Deduce someone at the next set of traffic lights.”

Sherlock twisted his head slightly but didn't look out the window. He was searching for Mozilla.

When he spotted him in John's grip, he snatched him up and hugged him tight.

When the car stopped at the next set of lights, John spotted a woman out the window. “'Lock, see that woman. Based on her stance, she's clearly a circus performer. She walks the high wire.” He was being intentionally ridiculous.

The detective glanced out the window and then shrugged. “Hmm. Maybe,” he whispered. He set Mozilla down on his knee and began bouncing him up and down. Like a father might do to a toddler.

Greg caught John's eye and they exchanged understanding looks. “We're almost there, mate,” the DI reassured him. “Maybe things will improve once we get there.”

John didn't hold out much hope for that.

When they pulled up at Baker Street John sighed in relief. It had been so long since he'd seen the flat but more importantly it had been so long since he'd seen the old woman stood at the door.

She had her apron in hand and was dabbing at her eyes. “Oh, boys,” Mrs. Hudson said as she came down the steps and across the pavement.

John climbed out when Greg opened the door for them. He pushed his hand into the car, most surprise when Sherlock took it. He pulled the younger man through the door.

The detective had Mozilla in one hand, the meerkat's ear in his mouth.

Mycroft walked up behind them and rested his hand on his brother's shoulder again, trying to show as much support as he could manage.

Mrs. Hudson held out her arms, but didn't close in on him. She had been warned of Sherlock's fragile state by Mycroft. Everyone held their collective breaths until the detective went to her and let himself be hugged.

They should have realised. Sherlock would never want to hurt Mrs. Hudson. She meant so much more to the detective than just their old land lady.

“Mrs. Hudson, perhaps we could reconvene inside, we're trying to keep Sherlock and John out of sight for a while.”

She glanced up the street and saw the armed officers already stood well within the protective distance.

“Of course.” She kept her hand on Sherlock's arm and guided him inside. “I made biscuits dear, all sorts. You can have as many as you like.” There, she urged him towards a chair. “I'll just go make tea. John, Mycroft, Greg, find places to sit. I won't be a moment.”

Sherlock sat in the chair that he always used to sit in when they came down to Mrs. Hudson's apartment. But he sat there awkwardly, watching Mozilla as if he thought his old landlady might take him away.

Mrs. Hudson returned with six cups of tea, one for each of them, including Mozilla. Sherlock's smiled an amused smile when she offered one of the cups to the stuffed toy.

Sherlock took it for him. According to the detective it was 'too hot' for the smallest of them.

Next came a big basket of cookies and biscuits.

“Any you don't eat you can take with you,” she smiled.

At the sight of them, the detective's eyes actually lit up. He grabbed two. One of which he popped into his mouth, the other, he offered to Mozilla. After a moment, he looked at the old woman and cocked his head to the side. “You're sad, but you're trying to hide it. Why?”

Mrs. Hudson froze. “I'm not sad, dear, I'm glad you've come to see me.”

Sherlock frowned. He glanced from Mycroft to Greg and then finally to John. “Why?”

“Because she cares about you. We all do,” John explained. He couldn't understand why that was so difficult for the detective to comprehend.

“People cared about Mistress too. Lots of people. Everyone. Why are all those people not sad? Why is she running when she should be with someone that makes her cookies?”

Greg was the first to speak. “Because the Molly that people cared about was a lie. She never existed.”

“That's right, dear,” Mrs. Hudson agreed. “The only thing I would feed that woman is arsenic.”

John - sat beside Sherlock, as close as possible - spat out his tea in his surprise. Mrs. Hudson threw a tea towel at him, rolling her eyes.

Mycroft and the DI turned to look at him.

But suddenly Sherlock had frozen, as if he was in his Mind Palace.

Suddenly he leapt out of his seat and was going to the door.

“Sherlock? What is it?”

“I know where she is!”


	16. Chapter 16

The other three men looked on, amazed at the radical shift in Sherlock's behaviour. He didn't appear to be the cringing broken man of moments ago, but the sharp minded detective of several months before. None of them knew how long it would last, however.

Sherlock looked at his brother with a hawk like gaze. “We have to catch her before she can hurt S- John.”

“What? No, Sherlock, I'm fine. We need to find her to stop her hurting you.”

Sherlock didn't seem to be listening though, he just went out of the door.

The other three men raced after him, determined not to let him out of their sight.

“'Lock!” John called. “I need your hand.” When that didn't work, the doctor tried a partial truth. “Babe, I'm nervous.” Let the detective think John was nervous about himself. He didn't have to know John was terrified for Sherlock.

The detective slowed down. “It's okay, John. I'm right here.” He let the doctor take his hand, much to everyone's relief.

“Where is there a cab when you need one?” He growled.

Mycroft kind of wolf-whistled and his car pulled up, the armed guards getting into the car behind.

“Myc-”

“Just get in, 'Lock.”

Seeing as the three men had him hemmed him in, Sherlock had no choice. Reluctantly John released his hand as they climbed into the car. He grabbed it again as soon as they were seated by one another.

When everyone had got in the car, Mycroft asked, “Where to, brother-mine?”

“Anderson's.”

Greg's eyebrows rose. Mycroft didn't argue just allowed the DI to pass the address on.

“Bloody hell.” Greg rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “We should have gone public with Molly's misdeeds. There's no knowing what lies she's dropped on Anderson.”

“You can be sure Donovan has vouched for her as well,” Mycroft observed.

Sherlock had gone back to his silence again. They didn't know whether they should be glad or worried. It wasn't like there was a manual for this sort of thing.

To think that Sherlock was 'fixed' was one thing… but actually able to… John's thoughts trailed off and he looked over at the DI.

Greg's expression clearly reflected the doctor's own thoughts. It would have been nice to be able to talk without Sherlock listening before they charged into the situation that was about to unfold, but it was simply impossible.

Mycroft was biting his bottom lip, one hand absently tapping on his knee. He needed to stop this, stop Sherlock, he couldn't do this, he wasn't ready, hell, he doubted that even John was ready.

He squeezed Greg's knee to get his attention. Once he had it, he shook his head minutely. In response, the DI gave a helpless shrug as if to say, 'What do we do?'

Unfortunately, Sherlock had observed the exchange and, before his brother could give the order to lock the doors, the detective opened his door and dived o8ut, rolling as he hit the tarmac. His only thought was to protect John and not to let him down and if that meant leaving him, then so be it.

He didn't even glance at the car that had slammed its brakes on, he'd jumped straight into his Mind Palace to find the route to the address Greg had given the driver. He didn't even remember getting to his feet and breaking into a run. He wove in and out of the passing pedestrians, down an alley and up the fire escape. Soon enough, he was traversing the rooftops of London. The only thought in his mind; to protect John. He'd do that in whatever manner he could, even if that meant surrendering himself to Mistress.

It took him 20 minutes to get to Anderson's. Well, to his roof. He needed a plan. That was the sort of thing he would have done before, right? Make a plan. No… he would have just barged straight in.

He scrambled down a drainpipe and knocked on the door. The door cracked open a few inches and Anderson peered out, letting out a small gasp. From behind him, Sally called out softly, “Who is it?”

“Sergeant Donovan, please tell Mistress I'm here.” Sherlock's tone was deferential.

Donovan almost… grinned. “Molly!” She yelled up the stairs.

By this point Donovan had thrown Sherlock up against the wall and was searching him.

Molly appeared at the top of the stairs.

Donovan, satisfied he wasn't hiding something, cuffed his wrists tightly behind him and shoved him to his knees at the bottom of the stairs.

“And here we thought we'd have to lure Molly's runaway slave into a trap,” Sally said from where she loomed over the detective.

Molly - her leg obviously still paining her - made her way down the stairs. It seemed as though someone, probably Anderson, had treated and splinted her leg.

“My dog,” Molly beamed.

Sherlock's lowered head didn't move. He didn't know whether he should apologise for hurting her or for being taken away. That hadn't been his fault. Mycroft had intervened and Greg… and John.

“I'm sorry, Mistress. I found you, Mistress. Please, leave everyone else out of this, Mistress. Please.” Sherlock's voice shook with the force of his desperation.

She grabbed his curls and yanked his head back. “How do I know you haven't been sent as bait?” She hissed.

“With respect, Molly,” Sally intervened. “They wouldn't let him out of touching distance, let alone this.”

“Then let's give him a little test.” Molly grinned maniacally. “Uncuff him and let him fetch coffee for Philip. We'll see how much of his training he remembers. My pet can even kiss Philip's shoes when he's done.”

Anderson laughed.

“Yes, Mistress,” Sherlock whispered.

Sally uncuffed his wrists and hauled him to his feet.

“Get that coat off!” Molly snapped at him.

Sherlock took it off hurriedly. “Anything else, Mistress?”

“Why not? Strip down to your pants.” Molly chuckled, knowing Anderson was the last person in the world who Sherlock would want to see him so humiliated, but he didn't hesitate, his clothes came off quickly and he folded them. Molly pointed to the floor and Sherlock placed the lot in a pile.

“Coffee, slave. Now!”

Sherlock had to steady himself against the wall as he was shoved, but he did it on his weak arm and he couldn't help the broken whimper that was released. He hurried through to the kitchen though, having deduced its whereabouts.

As he set about making coffee, Sherlock promised himself he would be good for Mistress. If he was good enough, she might leave John alone. He made a cup of coffee just like Anderson preferred it and carried it back into the living room.

Molly was sat on the sofa, her foot raised on a few cushions.

He placed the coffee in the forensic scientist's hands and even knelt to kiss his shoes, not even hesitating.

“Cuffs, Sally?” Molly asked, perfectly politely. As Molly caught them she pulled Sherlock the small distance by the hair. “Wrists,” she hissed. With immediate compliance, she snapped the cuffs around his wrists. “Ah, does that hurt my slave?”

Sherlock was trying to remain on top of the pain in his arm. It was more difficult than he realised. Especially after the journey across half of London.

Anderson, delighted, leaned forward. “What else can you make him do?”

“Oh, anything.” Molly smiled at her pet. “I can even make him select his own punishment.”

“Punishment for what?”

“You could choose something,” Molly offered. “He won't mind. Even if he did, it's hardly his place to care. I can't believe he came back to me.”

“He was always so arrogant, thinking he was better than the rest of us. And his insults-” Anderson sneered. “I think he should be punished for that.”

“Of course.”

They all waited a while, Sherlock knelt on the floor amongst them. Eventually, Molly removed the cuffs once again and tugged Sherlock to his feet. “Lean over the back of the chair, you insolent shit.”

Sherlock complied immediately, he had no idea what was coming, he had no idea what resources they had here.

They all jerked in complete surprise when the door was kicked in with brute force.

Mycroft, Greg and John burst through the door, followed by several of Mycroft's men.

Molly twisted around as fast as she could, given her injured leg, pulling a pistol from her waistband. None of them had any idea where it came from and they had clearly underestimated her. Again. She fired, once, twice. The first shot hit one of Mycroft's men, the second hit John.

This had been about protecting John, Sherlock lurched around and smacked Molly so hard that the gun went flying in one direction and she went flying in the other.

It was at that critical moment that a door opened in his Mind Palace and he stepped out of it complete and whole. He lunged for the gun, hitting the floor, grabbing it, and rolling to his feet. Just as he was about to pull the trigger and put a bullet in the hated woman's head, John gasped out a pained, “Sherlock! No!” As fast as the door had opened, it shut again, locking the 'whole' Sherlock back inside his Mind Palace. He dropped the gun and Mycroft's men moved in to take Molly, Donovan and Anderson into custody.

Sherlock fell to his knees, sobbing. John couldn't move and the armed guard that had been shot was dead on the floor. John had been lucky.

Mycroft threw himself to the floor beside his brother, leaving Greg to tend to John. He pulled him into his lap. “Oh, 'Lock, you shouldn't have run off,” he held him tight as Sherlock cried.

“I had to,” sob, “protect,” sob, “John. And I didn't.” He couldn't say anymore as he broke down into broken wails and tried to claw his way to John's side.

“Hush!” Mycroft used a stern tone as much as he loathed to. “We have medics with us. Let them do their job. John will be fine if you let them do their job.” He tried to hold Sherlock back.

A medic moved to their side holding a syringe, she passed it to the older brother.

“Sherlock, I'm sorry,” Mycroft whispered. He hated to do this, but he knew he had to get Sherlock into some clothes and somewhere safe and this was the only way how.

“Please, Mycie, no.” Sherlock sounded so lost and desperate, it tore at Mycroft's heart. The needle slid home and a few brief moments later, the detective went limp in his brother's arms.

Even through his pain and the questions he was being asked, John noticed. He looked immeasurably sad, but relieved that Sherlock's sobs had quieted.

Mycroft still held him tight, not releasing him in the slightest.

Greg crouched beside him. “Babe, we should get him in the ambulance.”

“He's not going in an ambulance. We're going back to my private centre.” Mycroft's own voice wasn't far from a sob. “And he isn't going from my sight.”

“When he wakes up and John's not there-”

“He'll be there, Gregory. The ambulance is one of mine. He'll be cared for at the centre as well. We'll see to it that Sherlock doesn't wake until John is ready.” Mycroft looked over at the doctor. “You ride with John.”

“But I don't-”

“Please, Gregory.”

The DI sighed. “Yeah, alright.”

John was in and out of consciousness, but it looked like the bullet had got him in the leg rather than somewhere vital. What a time for their luck to change.

Well, Greg thought, it looked like John's psychosomatic limp wouldn't be psychosomatic any longer, at least for a while. He stayed out of the way as best he could, even as he climbed into the ambulance to ride back to the private centre. God, but his head hurt.

***

Hours later when Sherlock awoke, he was silent for a long time.

Mycroft had drifted off to sleep beside him and jerked awake, incredibly aware of his brother's presence. “He's okay,” Mycroft assured his brother, but he got a disturbing lack of response. “John's awake and resting quietly. He's been asking to see you. Would like that? To see him?”

“No,” the detective whispered, almost inaudibly.

“Why not?” The older Holmes questioned.

“I'm bad for him. I got him shot.”

Mycroft leant forward and cupped his cheek. “Oh, Sherlock…”

“I went to her. I did what was best.” The detective suddenly realised his arm was in a sling again, but he didn't try to fight it, he was resigned to it. “Where's Mozilla?”

Mycroft held the stuffed toy up. “Right here and you can have him if you promise to go to John. John is sad because you're not with him and he's worried about you. He won't heal well without you beside him.” Mycroft reflected on how none of that was actually a lie.

Sherlock shook his head. He didn't try to reach out for Mozilla. The comfort Mozilla offered wasn't worth what John would have to go through if Sherlock was beside him.

Sighing, the elder Holmes immediately settled on a plan. He would wait until John roused fully and was demanding to see Sherlock very vocally, then he would have Greg secretly dial his phone and let Sherlock hear how distressed the good doctor was. That should get through his brother's thick skull, but he still couldn't stand to see that look of resignation on his face. He placed Mozilla on his chest.

“How are you feeling?”

Sherlock ignored him. He ignored Mozilla too.

That hurt so much that Mycroft crawled into bed with him. He wrapped his arms around his baby brother, who went stiff, and held him for several minutes. It seemed to take forever before Sherlock finally relaxed in his arms.

“I'm sorry, Mycie, I'm sorry about everything.”

“Shh,” Mycroft soothed. “It's ok. It's all going to be ok.”

“I didn't… I don't… Myc, I don't know what to do.”

“It's alright.” The elder Holmes smoothed back his brother's hair. “Right now, your job is to help John get better. To do that, you need to let him see that you are ok. Can you do that for him?”

“I don't know.” He frowned at himself, as if he was struggling to think. “Can I?”

“You're getting better again, 'Lock, your arm's back in its sling. How's your chest feeling?” At his brother's slight incline of the head, he continued, “Just let John see that you weren't shot, he doesn't seem to believe us.”

“I had to go to her. What if she had hurt you? Or John. Or Greg?”

Mycroft sighed. Things were worse than they seemed if Sherlock was calling him Greg not Gavin. Mycroft sat up, his legs dangling off the bed. “Are you ready to go see John now?”

“Do I have do?”

“No, but John needs you to.”

“I'll go if you'll come with me, Mycie.”

“Of course I will and Gregory is already there.”

Sherlock tried to get to his feet, but he wobbled.

Chuckling softly, to let him know he was ok with it, he scooped his younger brother up into his arms and began the journey to the room next door. This time around they'd taken him to the biggest, but made sure it still had a garden and Ördek and Beaker were still quite content in the pool.

Mycroft set his brother down on a large, comfortable chair right by John's bed. There was no mistaking the doctor's relief at seeing him safe and not shot.

“Oh, 'Lock, c'mere. Give me your hand,” John croaked.

Sherlock didn't know what to do, he glanced at Mycroft, who inclined his head slightly, but still he didn't move. He had Mozilla wedged in his sling and he did nothing but stroke his nose. He tried to stand up, to leave, but his legs wouldn't hold him.

John - who could be as bad a patient as Sherlock - tried to climb from the bed to get closer to the detective. That finally goaded Sherlock to action, he didn't want him to hurt himself. He held out his hand and let John hold it, but he wouldn't meet the doctor's eyes.

“How are you feeling?” John asked. In all honesty he wasn't looking as bad as he had feared.

“Fine,” he whispered, still not looking up, his attention was focused entirely on his toy.

“Oh, 'Lock.” John sighed. “I wish you hadn't run off on your own, but I'm so proud of you for deducing where Molly was.”

“I had to go, sir, for you,” he added.

“It's not 'sir', Sherlock. And you didn't.”

“I had to protect you,” the younger man clarified.

John sighed, but that discussion would keep for another time. “I'm proud of you for keeping her from hurting anyone else.”

Sherlock still didn't look up. “She hurt you. You got shot. And so did that man that came to help. It's my fault. I deserved what she was about to do to me, sir, and you interrupted.”

This time John ignored the 'sir'. “Bollocks!” He hissed. “You didn't deserve that. You don't deserve that. If anyone does it's that bitch. And Donovan and Anderson.” John's voice had risen, as well as his heart rate, making the monitors sound in alarm.

Sherlock's hand slid out of John's immediately and he tried to back away from the noise. “Mycie, I want to go.”

At that sentence the monitors sounded even more alarming, panic rising up inside the doctor.

“John, mate,” Greg stood beside him, trying to get his attention and draw it away from the panicking detective. “You need to calm down. Breathe deeply with me. In… out… in… that's it.”

A physician and two nurses rushed in. After several moments of John not being able to calm down enough for their liking, the physician injected something into John's IV line. It didn't put him completely under, not straight away, but it was a matter of a few more moments before John's eyes drifted shut as he called brokenly for Sherlock. It wasn't strong, he wouldn't be out for long, just long enough to relax his system.

Mycroft glanced around, this whole thing was a mess. John was in pieces and his brother was far more broken than he had seemed before he'd run off. Sherlock was rocking backwards and forwards in his chair, chewing the top of his trousers, where his good arm wrapped around his knees.

Greg got up, thinking maybe he knew why Sherlock was in such a panic even as John was now asleep. He walked over to Sherlock where he crouched down in front of him. “'Lock, Molly and the rest of them are being held behind so many layers of security that there is zero chance of them ever breaking out. You and John are safe from them.”

“But John's not safe from me,” the detective whispered before biting down on Mozilla's ear rather than his knee. Sherlock looked around almost awkwardly. He swallowed hard a few times and then glanced at the DI. “And you said that before, sir. John got hurt. I tried to stop him getting hurt…” he whispered.

“I know and we let you down. This time, only Mycroft's retinal scan can open their cells.” He looked over at his boyfriend. “And there is no need for them to be opened.”

Mycroft joined them, having seemingly checked all the processes the medical staff had put into place.

“I assure you that's not happening,” he agreed with the DI.

Sherlock didn't look like he believed them for one moment.

“Surely just letting her go and letting me go is the easiest way out of all of this?”

“Fuck easy!” The DI barked, he couldn't help himself, all he knew was that they needed to knock Sherlock out of this loop. He didn't need Molly and he certainly didn't have to put up with her anymore, if only he understood. “I don't give a bloody hell about easy. None of us do. All Mycroft and I care about is getting you and John better. Then everything will be fine again.”

Mycroft linked his fingers into Greg's, standing with his other hand on his brother's shoulder. “Gregory is correct. You two are all that matters.”

Sherlock wished he could be hiding in the corner, but instead he held Mozilla tightly and stared at his socks. It wasn't like he could get up and run off, despite wanting to.

Mycroft sighed softly, reaching out both hands to cup Sherlock's cheeks, trying to make eye contact with the younger Holmes. “I can see we're not getting through to you. I'll try to make it simple, baby brother. You are not to leave John's side. See to it that he's well taken care of. When he's feeling better, we'll go from there.”

Sherlock couldn't work out why they were so angry with him. He hadn't meant to upset them. “Yes, sir,” he whispered. He threw Mozilla to the side and turned to watch John.

Sherlock's voice had been barely audible, but it made Mycroft's blood run cold. He had clearly done something wrong or his brother wouldn't have called him 'sir'. That should never happen. He replayed his most recent words in his head and groaned. They had been given as orders, but how else could he make Sherlock understand? His brother wasn't making much sense. “Baby brother, please don't call me sir. Call me Mycroft, Mycie or Myc.”

“Yes, Mycroft,” he whispered instead. He wasn't scared. He could not be scared. He didn't know what he was supposed to do here. He was useless. He couldn't even stand up and all John was doing was sleeping. But what he did know was being scared wasn't it. Mycroft still stood there staring at him, he didn't want to be here, he liked it where he knew where he belonged. That was easy with Mistress.

He poked at John's mattress. There was a loose string on it, so he gave it a pull. He had felt like himself for a few moments that day. It would be so much easier if he could feel that way again, but he knew he didn't deserve it.

Mycroft stepped up to him and stopped cold as Sherlock flinched. He glanced over to Greg, not sure what he had done. “Sherlock…”

“Yes, Mycroft?” He responded quietly. It sounded far too submissive for the government official's liking.

“I… why don't you… we…”

Sherlock looked at him blankly.

“We should eat,” Mycroft finished lamely.

“I can't leave John, you said so.”

“I'll have food brought here, 'Lock, and we can watch over John together.” The elder Holmes bent and picked up Mozilla, handing him to his brother.

Sherlock didn't take Mozilla and he certainly didn't want any food. He looked over at the monitor, checking everything. At least that part of his Mind Palace still worked.

With another deep sigh, Mycroft tucked Mozilla in beside John thinking that might strike a chord with his brother. “There, 'Lock. Mozilla can take care of John like he's been taking care of you.”

Sherlock nodded, then he looked over to Greg, maybe he'd get a better answer out of him, he seemed less angry than Mycroft at any rate. “What am I supposed to do, sir? I'm no good at this.”

The DI spoke slowly, as if to a child. “For starters, you eat to keep your energy up, then you rest when John rests. When he wakes up, you see what he needs and get it for him. Even if that's just holding his hand.” That all sounded like too much, Greg knew, but it would give the detective something to think about, his brain was clearly needing something. That was one thing that had definitely seemed to change. Maybe it was a good thing?

Sherlock didn't look at Mycroft as he tried to stand, this time he managed it. He glanced at Mozilla, but left him where he was before he began to make his unsteady way back to the room he had come from earlier. When he got there, he curled up in a ball on his side in bed. He covered his head with a pillow and willed the world to go away. It wasn't fair, none of this was. He had just been trying to make things better. Instead, they were worse. It was his fault! His! He heard the door open, but he didn't move.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, sir?” He whispered.

Mycroft stood at the bottom of the bed, watching him. Sherlock's behaviour seemed different this time. He wasn't just reverting to a younger version of himself. He seemed to be blaming himself for everything and was sinking into melancholy if not complete depression. That could not be good. “I thought we were going to eat?”

“Greg said I had to rest when John was resting, sir.”

Mycroft sighed. “What have I told you about calling me that?”

“Sorry, Mycroft.”

The government official peeled the pillow off of Sherlock's head so he could see his face. “I would really like you to eat now.”

The broken detective shook his head. “Don't wanna.”

Mycroft could argue, he could also have him force fed, but they weren't at that point yet. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that at all.

“Alright, then, 'Lock, you can sleep.”

Sherlock straightened himself out.

“Why don't we see about getting the two of you in the same room again when you wake up, yeah?”

“No, please, sir.” The detective covered his face again. His next words were muffled.

Mycroft uncovered him and ran his hand through his curls. “Please listen to me, 'Lock. You need John. He needs you. There is nothing wrong with that, OK? Because I said so,” he added, maybe Sherlock needed an excuse?

This time Sherlock nodded. “OK.” Then he shook his head, as if to clear it. That ache in his head that had been ever present since he'd woken up had gone. What was going on? He was… this wasn't right. Where was John?

“Now you can sleep.”

“Not tired,” he whispered.

Mycroft sighed softly, back to child mode, then, he realised. “Then you can do whatever you want to do,” Mycroft offered, hoping he'd get out of bed again. All he seemed to do these days was sleep, after all.

“I don't want to do anything, Myc.”

The way his brother said it, Mycroft heard the unspoken 'ever again' and he felt his heart break for him.

“We could go back to John?” He suggested.

At the suggestion this time around a light flickered on behind Sherlock's eyes.

This was nothing but confusing. One moment he wanted to be as far from the doctor as possible, the next he wanted to see him… God dammit!

Sherlock was once again wobbly, so Mycroft picked him up and carried him back to the doctor's room. This time, the detective leaned towards the bed, obviously wanting to be put down on it.

Mycroft placed him on his feet beside it, worried he'd fall if he tried anything else. “You ok?”

Sherlock nodded.

At that, the older brother stepped back and pulled a very confused DI to the side. This wasn't making a bit of sense.

The detective moved around to John's left side and managed to lower the bedrail, then he sat on the edge of the bed. His gaze kept shifting from John's face to his wounded right leg and back.

“What is going on in that head of his, Mycroft?” Greg asked, extremely concerned. “I just don't understand.”

“For once, neither do I. When I found him, he was buried under his bedclothes. He wasn't himself… I mean the Sherlock he's been for the past few weeks. He was different. He looked like he was feeling guilty. I tried to convince him about John and child Sherlock reappeared; wanting to see him practically straight away. It was like he turned the other him off.”

“Maybe it kicked started something?”

“To quote John, that's a bit not good.” Greg ran his hand though his hair and swore under his breath. “This whole thing is fucked up.”

“Like it wasn't 2 weeks ago?”

Greg sighed. “Yeah, I know. But are we ever gonna catch a break?”

Mycroft smiled sadly and then his brother caught his eye. “Apparently, yes.”

Sherlock was leant over the doctor, cupping his cheek. The older man's eyes had flickered opened gently.

“Hey there, babe,” John croaked, his mouth dry. He groped and covered Sherlock's hand with his own. “Can I have some ice?”

The detective's eyes widened in panic, but Greg handed him a cup full of ice chips.

Sherlock wouldn't take his eyes off John, but he moved his hand momentarily to grab Mozilla and put him on his own lap.

Mycroft moved around the bed and began tapping at the screen beside it, keeping track of things.

“How do you feel?” Greg asked as John crunched on the ice chips.

The doctor gave a brittle laugh. “Like I've been shot. But I've got my 'Lock here with me, so I'll be fine.” He didn't see the stricken look on Sherlock's face. He also had no idea about what had occurred in the last half an hour, but maybe that was a good thing.

Sherlock couldn't bring himself to stand up and walk out so he turned his attention to Mozilla instead. “Mozilla's hungry, Myc,” he decided suddenly.

The elder Holmes sighed in relief. 'Myc' was back. Thank God.

“Would you like waffles?” John asked, squeezing the detective's hand.

“Don't know,” Sherlock mumbled. “You pick.”

John looked over at the two older men, he was finding this rather disturbing. He was pretty sure the whole debacle earlier hadn't been a part of his imagination.

“I'll get us some food,” Greg said, heading to the door.

“No, Gavin! Don't go.”

The DI turned back to Sherlock. “I'll ask one of the nurses to have something brought. They're just outside the door with the guards. You can watch me the whole time.”

Greg did just that. The detective's grip on John's hand was painfully tight until the DI closed the door and came back to sit down.

Seems like things were back to normal. At least the new normal.


	17. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the end then guys! We both hope you enjoyed :)

It had been three months since John had been shot. Luckily, the bullet hadn't hit either bone or artery. He was walking around fine now but occasionally needed a wheelchair when he tired himself out. Sherlock made good use of himself by pushing it.

At the moment, they were headed to Angelo's. The doctor was irritated at needing the wheelchair in public but had resigned himself to the necessity. Unfortunately, Sherlock had picked up on it - of course he had. “We're almost there, sir. Just another half block.”

John tilted his head back and looked up at his fiancé. “Babe, call me John. Angelo might think it's strange, you calling me sir when we tell him about our engagement.”

He tried to smile. “I didn't, I don't-”

John reached his hand back and snagged his shirt. He pulled him down for an upside down kiss. “It's fine.”

The detective stood back up smiling tentatively. As he started pushing the wheelchair again, he froze. For just one moment, he thought he'd seen Molly. John had seen her too.

“Babe, that wasn't-”

“I know, sir, John. It wasn't Molly and it wouldn't matter if it was,” Sherlock's voice was almost steady as he said it.

“That's right. You know Mycroft left her in that cell for two months until she was begging to be let out, then took her to work as a slave at the Diogenes. Remember when she saw you? What she tried with you? What did you do?”

“I laughed at her.” Sherlock smiled. It had been a forced laugh, to be sure, but he had done it.

John was happy they wouldn't have to repeat that scene with either Sally or Anderson. The first was serving time in prison for slave abuse and complicity. The latter had been transferred far away, far enough they would never see him again. “I was so proud of you. I still am.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock gripped the handles of the wheelchair tight for a moment. “I don't know what I would do without you, si- John.”

“And we're not going to find out, because I need you just as much.”

“You could push yourself around in this thing. You don't need me to do it.”

John grabbed the wheels so Sherlock had to stop pushing. He spun himself around.

“Pack it in, 'Lock.”

“I don't understand-”

“When I say I need you, I mean I need you like I need air to breath.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” John spun back around. “Now let's go make Angelo the happiest man in London.”

“Why would he be happy?”

John sighed, he had to remind himself that in all Sherlock had done since then it had only been a few months and in the long scheme of things hardly any time at all.

“He thought we were a couple the first time he saw us together, just like Mrs. Hudson. He never really believed anything to the contrary.” John couldn't help but smile. “He's a smart man, in his own way.”

Sherlock walked around the wheelchair and opened the door to the restaurant so John could wheel himself in.

“Sherlock! John, what have you been up to?”

“It was my fault, s- Angelo. He was protecting me.”

“You protect each other. That's what you do.” He moved the chair from their usual table. “You can roll right up to it, Doctor Watson. I'll get the wine.” He rushed off without another word.

John rolled up to the table. “'Lock, please sit down.” He waited until the detective had taken a seat. “Repeat after me: What happened wasn't my fault.”

Sherlock just stared at him. He glanced at Billy awkwardly and then folded his hands on the table.

“Well it wasn't.” John sighed, then smiled at Billy. “We really need to talk to Angelo, but he ran off before we got a chance to tell him. Would you ask him to join us for a minute?”

“Of course, sir.”

When he had moved far enough away he couldn't hear them, he turned back to Sherlock.

He was cowering himself into the corner, his arms wrapped around his knees.

“Babe, is this too much?” John pushed away from the table and started to stand in preparation to moving around to the detective's side. “We can go home. This can wait.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Sit back down, si- John. Please.” His eyes were squeezed shut and he was concentrating on his breathing. “Please. I just-”

“It's okay. Take your time.” John looked up and waved Angelo, who was approaching, away.

He immediately went from grinning broadly to concerned.

The doctor shifted himself from the wheel chair, to the window seat beside Sherlock.

The detective cannoned into him, making him wince slightly as he was hugged tightly.

“When will it get better?” Sherlock asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It's getting better already.” John petted his fiancé's curls. “You solved that case for Greg yesterday.”

“I didn't even leave the flat to do it.”

“You were still bloody brilliant. When you're ready to leave the flat for a case, you will.” John grinned. “And you called Mycroft an interfering busybody just this morning.

Sherlock sniffed. “That's because he is.”

John smiled and held him tighter.

“That's good. That's really good. And just think, Greg and Mycroft don't have to stay with us anymore, we've had nearly a whole month on our own in the flat. Just us. Because you're getting better.”

“Angelo's mad. You'll be mad.”

“'Lock, don't think with your... emotions,” there was no other word John could use. “Observe. Look at Angelo. Tell me what you see.”

Reluctantly, the detective did just that. “He's not angry. He's worried.”

“Good. Now do the same with me.”

That was harder for Sherlock to do. He bit his lip and met John's eyes. There was no anger there either, simply unending patience. “Oh.”

John brought his hand up and caressed Sherlock's cheek. “Better now?”

“You always used to tell me I should have emotions.”

“I…”

“You called me a machine because I didn't.”

“I called you a machine because I was a blind fool.” John pressed his palms to his eyes so hard he saw stars. “You have emotions and that bitch used them against you. She used them to hurt you.” He dropped his hands to the table top. “Look, I don't want you to second guess everything you feel. Just trust me when I ask you to think through things from time to time.” Sherlock looked so confused that the doctor pulled him into a hug and didn't want to let him go. He only did let him go because the detective whimpered.

“Are your ribs still giving you pain?”

Sherlock looked away, unwilling to answer.

“'Lock, you haven't had any pain medication for them for weeks. Do you mean to tell me you have been keeping the pain in them from me?”

He glanced at the table top. “Don't be mad, John, sir, please. You were busy… with your leg… it's nothing. It's unimportant.”

“No, it's not.” John stood and limped over to the still worried Angelo. “Do you have paracetamol? He's been hurting and hasn't said a damn thing about it.”

“Of course. Of course.” Angelo wrung his hands. “I'll get him some, but I'm worried about my friend.”

“He'll be okay, eventually. And Angelo, he needs lots of calories.”

His expression turned into a smile. “That I can do something about. Brownie for dessert, Sherlock?” He called.

The detective frowned but nodded. That was clearly on John's orders.

The doctor limped back over to their table. Instead of sitting in the wheelchair, he once again sat by Sherlock's side. He was suddenly very tired.

Noticing that, the detective tentatively reached out a hand and, hesitating briefly, placed it on John's neck. He began massaging the tense muscles that were knotted up there. “Is this okay, si- John?”

The doctor's eyes had shut. “It's more than okay. I'll give you about a hundred years to stop.”

He smiled.

Within moments food was on their table and tablets were pressed into Sherlock's hand.

“It's fine. I don't need them.”

John rolled his eyes. “I say you do. I won't be able to enjoy the evening if you don't take them.” He picked up his fiancé's water and held it out to him expectantly.

“Fine, but only because you're marrying me.”

Just as he popped the tablets in his mouth, Angelo turned around, squealing like a girl in delight. “You hear that Billy?! My boys are getting married! Champagne for everyone!”

“'My boys',” Sherlock whispered to the doctor in shock. “Mrs. Hudson is not going to like this.”

John tilted his head back and laughed. And laughed. And laughed. He laughed so hard that he cried. “Oh, I think they'll get on fabulously. They can exchange tales about how they knew we were made for each other, but we were too blind to see it.”

“You think so-”

“I know so.”


End file.
